The Perditions of John
by Howlynn
Summary: John has lost Sherlock and maybe himself. After Sherlock's Fall can John find his way or will his old friend 'death' claim him too. Maybe Sherlock will find his apprentice has learned his type of game too well? A new game, a new perdition, a new John.
1. Chapter 1

The Perditions of John

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
><strong>Realm<strong>: _Sherlock_  
><strong>Story Title<strong>: The 1st Perdition of John  
><strong>Summary<strong>:_ John deals with the moments in his life that have brought him to this place and his thoughts and first impressions of his Fall._  
><strong>CharacterRelationships**: John/Sherlock

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Note – This is my first attempt off the hunger games board. I have never seen the Sherlock series. I wanted to see if I could write someone besides Haymitch Abernathy and you can blame my new likey of this whole Johnlock thing on ElewynBrandt, because it is all her fault for getting me started! So even if it is horrible, do be kind – the closest thing I have to a brit-pick is my 13 year old who seems to be channeling one of you across the ponders – and uses all the British slang to insult his class-mates. Yes, he knows all the words to 'God Save The Queen' and bellows it with gusto each time someone considers playing' My country tis of Thee' anywhere near him. We think he's weird – so he's my Sherlock = in a London Fog trench coat that is not fashionable here in the states.

UPDATE –Yeah – I just spent day watching 1st season – so I made some adjustments. Did anyone catch the pill error in the 90 minute version? Or the error about the text sent to the killer?

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><p>1st perdition<p>

Suicide.

John was no stranger to the call of darkness. He had made eye contact with the reaper on many occasions. John knew him well. Perhaps it was what he found so attractive about Sherlock. Maybe he'd always known that Sherlock would kill him. He expected it to be in a more exciting way. He didn't expect it to be death from bleak hopeless nothing.

He'd been here before. The first time he'd thought of it was while he was still at University. He'd lost someone and it was so senseless and bitter that he'd nearly found life pointless. He had watched someone die, helpless to know what to do. If he'd just known what to do. He got over it by changing his major and from that day on he would know what to do. John would be a doctor.

The next time death had slinked into his heart, was when he discovered that knowing what to do wasn't always enough. He learned to deal with it, losing patients. But it made him wonder if it was all worth it.

He'd joined the army. In truth he was not a brave man. In truth, he was no coward. In truth, he rode boldly toward the shadow. He wanted to save the brave men who rode boldly to Eldorado. He lost many. He climbed the mountains of the moon to save another and another. He felt like he had a purpose. He knew he would lose one day, but in the mean time it was glorious to flirt with life and death. He was good at what he did. John was not brave, because he was too happy and serene for it to be called bravery.

But, he did not find his welcome in the arms of death as he'd imagined it as a brave soldier, for a fellow knight in shining white and green saved him and sent him home to perdition, condemned to mediocre and lonely. Condemned to his monsters of the nocturnal who hungrily demanded a little more of his soul each night of sleepless sorrow. He limped. He had scars. He was of little value to anyone.

His therapist told him to write about his life. There was nothing worth writing about. He was getting behind on bills and had two weeks left before he would be evicted, homeless. That would be a popular post, money issues, health issues, mental issues. John couldn't wait to share his day to day events of dull useless wallowing in his life being effectively over. That would make him all better for certain. He was pretty certain his therapist had gotten her license at some internet paper mill abroad. That could explain her insistence on a blog as her preferred treatment plan.

He made the blog, but had yet to upload an entry. He couldn't think of anything worth saying, much less worthy to be read.

He couldn't find work for the damned tremor in his hand. He wasn't really a surgeon anymore, because that was one of those things hospitals were picky about these days, shaky handed surgeons were a liability. Surgeons with psychosomatic ailments were a half step away from homeless.

Death moved closer each hopeless day. They were old acquaintances now. Sitting alone in his flat, he smiled as he invited his acquaintance to dinner. There were the painless instruments on his coffee table. It has only taken him a week to acquire them. He was a doctor. He knew how to do this in the most pleasant form possible. Some days he looked at his pistol, knowing he wouldn't feel much that way either. Death looked at him without emotion and he returned the gaze.

Because there is no reason not to.

He silently challenged his guest.

_Your therapist will feel like a failure?_

Look at me. Do you call this successful?

_You will make your sister sad._

Not really, she will use me as an excuse to do precisely what she has been. She will love me for giving her and excuse to tell people to sod off about her drinking for a while.

_You are certain of this particular course of action?_

I have nothing to stay for and in two weeks…

_Take a walk first. It is a beautiful day. Pay attention. His guest replied. One last moment in the world and then we shall see to your appointment._

Yes. John Watson had said. He felt calm and peaceful from his choice.

He walked the familiar places. He was embarrassed about his limp, but he walked anyway.

He ran into an old friend. He was teaching now. He'd gotten amazingly fat. They went to lunch and it was nice to reminisce.

"Who would want me for a flat mate?" he'd asked Mike. Mike had smiled broadly, saying that was the second time he'd heard that today.

He introduced him to the strangest, most intriguing person he'd ever run across somewhere within the familiar bowels of St. Barts. This tall, blazing person had no boundaries, no rules and his superiority was forceful and had no safety. John was invited to look at a flat on the morrow. John almost thought it would be worth missing his own appointment to keep that one. He had no need to plan a future, but to just be near that something again, to have a chance to analyze it and figure out why he had none of that sort of majesty. He might stay for a bit.

He used the words riding crop and morgue in the same sentence. If John had any sense at all, that should have told him, maybe a bit not good.

He had no idea how long he walked after his interesting encounter. The sun was painting long shadows and he was drawn to turn onto Baker Street, the place where it may matter. The music pulled him. It moaned of his own heart, so filled with emptiness and so full of glorified sorrow. He paused below the window as a bloke slammed the door and crumpled a piece of pink paper and threw it on the ground with a comment of, "Stupid git."

Watson was not that curious about the man, other than he'd come out of the very building that was again sweetly playing his soul on the wind. It was a violin.

"You don't mind the violin, do you?" But of course he wasn't supposed to meet him there until tomorrow, so maybe it was a neighbor who also played.

He always wanted to learn but he was not in any way artistic. He found the only music his hands were capable of involved knitting of human flesh. He was an inverse butcher. An upscale tradesman. Up there, from that window, were hands meant to connect heaven and earth. He closed his eyes and inhaled the lavender air for the first time in ages and he felt lucky to be alive just for a split second. There was no time as the shadows lengthened and he stood so still as the violin cried.

The blissful sound stopped and he felt such loss, his eyes snapped open. He leaned on his cane and waited, looking upward hopefully. There was no more. It was time to go. He smiled at this last gift as he turned toward home and his appointment. His cane skittered the wadded up bit of pink trash and on a whim, he bent to pick it up. He hated people who littered. He took a step and almost threw it in the rubbish bin, when he uncrumpled it out of mild curiosity.

It was an advertisement for a person of exemplarily credentials to share a flat. It was in this very building. He stared at it for a moment. He looked skyward and wondered if it could be the player of a certain violin. He smiled. He had no intent of agreeing to the arrangements, but it might be a chance to meet the artist. He hoped that this violin belonged to a tall man who's eyes changed color with ethereal light, all their own.

He would not do anything as horrid as thank him for making his last hours on earth so enjoyable, but he so hoped to be able to do some small kindness, if it was indeed fated that he could lay eyes on his bringer of light.

He knocked on the door.

Pale skin and livid eyes. The magnificent one, here already. Sherlock nodded, pleased response only flashing in his eyes and the curl of his lip for a second.

Sherlock Holmes. The owner of a violin. A man of odd temperament and frightening intelligence. A man who made the doctor feel so very average, yet somehow of value. The sociopath who has no manners and is supposedly an unfeeling freak. How could anyone see him as unfeeling if they had heard him play?

He didn't agree to move in right away, though for the life of him, he couldn't imagine what he was thinking even by agreeing to return tomorrow and meet the landlady. He had planned to die and now he had made obligations for himself. It was injudicious. It was deplorable. It was pure magic.

He sat in his flat that night, thinking of how strange life could be. There was something about the man that seemed dangerous and yet destined.

He, what kind of a name is Sherlock, at once had John's attention. There was nothing like this man. He was ethereal and graceful and petulant and aloof and beautiful.

When John had asked about the violin, the man's eyes dropped and he looked disgusted. When he asked him to play, standing there in the darkness cloaked room with his cane gripped tight, to keep from shivering in the cool light of this man, Sherlock had gestured for him to sit and then lifted the instrument and tucked it under his chin. John had taken his place, what would soon be his chair, and his eyes closed as the man began to tell him all John needed to know from the waves he brought forth.

One song would end and John would open his eyes at once, begging with no words for more. Sherlock acquiesced aloofly the first time. But as the evening moon climbed high, a small smile appeared. There were no words sweeping the room as the two men grew to be friends.

Finally, Sherlock stopped. "You will do. You may return and we will see what Mrs. Hudson has to say."

"Thank you." John rose to set on his way.

John searched the internet that next day for information on his potential flat mate. What he found, the science of deduction, proved more confusing than he expected. He wondered if the whole thing was a spoof of some sort. Some things did make sense, that people had no idea how much they could determine about those around them if they simply paid attention. John felt that was true. He used the same sort of thing in his profession, though to a lesser degree than asserted here.

John himself could gage a pain level of a patient, by reading his eyebrows. There were many who could be in near agony, yet would say they were perfectly alright. If their eyebrows told him otherwise, he knew to keep looking, rather than trust their word. Also, it enabled him to quite accurately determine the sort of frequent flyer who sought pain medications for recreational purposes rather than actual need. The eyebrows rarely lied, though patients often did.

He could see some of the points made on the website, though many seemed so farfetched he had shaken his head at such boasts as being able to tell if a person was guilty by eye movement in a particular direction or if someone was a pilot by looking at their left thumb. John had seen his demonstration of observance, which was amazing, yet he also noticed how Sherlock did not observe as many equally important things as he did pick up.

Sherlock certainly didn't notice that the girl who brought him the coffee was insanely lovesick for him. He didn't notice that John was within hours of suicide, nor was he careful with his feelings while rattling off that his injury might be all in his head. John on the other hand, had formed some opinion of his aloof arrogance and the reasons behind his sleepless claim. The difference was John had a filter. He didn't state that Sherlock was possibly ADHD with autistic tendencies and that he was maladjusted to his environment because he presented some indicators of Asperger's syndrome as well as sociopathic detachment due to some probable childhood trauma.

Sherlock didn't notice everything by a long shot. He was a very interesting person and the way he played the violin was both pleasant to the ear but like an open window to the aloof Sherlock Holmes inner self.

John waited outside at fifteen minutes before seven o'clock. Sherlock swept out of a cab with grace and a genuine smile as he extended his hand and formally introduced himself. He seemed in a more amiable state of mind in the rare London sun and John couldn't help but smile with pleasure at the unusual history and easy dynamics between Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson. Mrs. Hudson mothered Sherlock as he pretended not to notice in any way, yet his lack of frustration with her chatter said far more than the taciturn replies he'd demonstrated the day before.

John flushed with embarrassment when Mrs. Hudson jumped to the conclusion that John would consider the second bedroom unnecessary. What had he told her about him? He was a little miffed that Sherlock made no move of any kind to correct her misplaced deductions. John was most vocal in his insistence that two rooms were indeed necessary. He was not as offended honestly as simple thrown off by her surety. John had never once been accused of giving off any vibes of homosexuality.

He was most concerned that he'd somehow put Sherlock off the flat mate idea if he was somehow reading him as showing interest in a relationship. John looked around the flat, realizing that it exuded a great deal more chaos than he'd been aware of last night. He tried to imagine the place clean, but as it dawned on him that his potential room-mate is simply a pig, and there was a somewhat unpleasant smell that hung about, he was having second thoughts.

Within ten minutes, a man showed up to ask for Sherlock's help in a police matter. He was calm and cool about the request until the moment the man was gone and then began jumping around like a teen girl who had just been asked on a first date. John waited patiently to hear some explanation, but was simply met with the swish of coat tails and demand that Mrs. Hudson provide the unimportant guest with tea. She made him angry by saying she could tell John was the sit down type. He had no idea how long he was expected to wait to work out the details of his possible move. He cursed his leg in frustration. He was as useless as ever and found the whole situation beyond his contempt.

Then Sherlock returned and his heart leaped as he invited him to have a peek at his world. "Want to see some more?"

Off they went into the unknown. John had no idea what to expect. He had no idea what was wanted of him. He tried to play along, but as he stepped out of the crime scene, realizing he'd again been left behind without so much as a word, he stomped away with no intention of ever speaking to Sherlock again.

Then, he found a reason to be even more confused. He was effectively kidnapped. He didn't associate this new development with Sherlock in any way at first. He had been to war and he had some impression that this may have to do with some contact he'd made during his military service. He had treated thousands of soldiers, and some were not strictly soldiers alone. He wondered if it was one of his patients or their family perhaps who had made this gesture of bizarre invitation. Either there was someone important who wanted to thank him, or someone who begrudged the fact he'd been unable to save their loved one. Either way, John was having an entertaining night, and the woman next to him was turning his mind to the hope of adventure of a different sort.

He should have known it had to do with Sherlock. He stood his ground, detached and yet still confused as he discovered that these people who had shown all this power to impress him only wanted him to spy on someone who he hadn't even decided he wanted to put up with. No he wasn't going to get involved with all this in any way. He wondered exactly what kind of trouble this Sherlock was in.

The well-dressed man seemed very certain that John was physically involved with Sherlock. Twice in one evening, that was rather telling, yet he had seen no sign of that sort of interest. He sighed at the prospect of moving in with a person on the wrong side of the government, who the very people he'd agreed to assist mentioned as a future murderer, and who, on top of it all, seemed to make everyone he encountered at once assume he was Gay.

He kept texting him the entire time he was kidnapped and John wondered if Sherlock had spotted them and had simply been unable to wait to explain. That at least meant he had not just abandoned him because he was too boring and useless to remember. John stopped at his little rental and collected his weapon. He had no permit to carry it, but that was far from his apparent need to carry it while in association with Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock was peacefully lounging on the couch as he arrived. He seemed less than surprised at the details John shared. In fact, he exuded no alarm in any way. He had the woman's suitcase and yet calmly explained that he had found it. While John had been under surveillance and dealing with the worry that Sherlock was in danger, Sherlock obliviously ranted about the thought process of the murderer.

"Dinner. I know a place." That was all. No further prompting was needed for John to follow. He just did. Solar objects caught in a pull, that had no concept of orbit.

Sherlock seemed to both want to catch the man who he sought and yet almost speak of him with awe. "Genius needs an audience," he said.

John looked at him with a sideways disgust. Well, he thought, that explains what you see me as. You are the genius and I am your audience, you oblivious prick. Still, in for a penny, in for a pound.

The small talk and John's attempts at conversation at the restaurant, were insanely uncomfortable and never quite ended up in the realm of what John intended. Sherlock and his 'date' were eating on the house. Third time he'd been mistaken for a gay man in his lifetime, all in one night. He tried to broach the subject with Sherlock, hoping to sound casual and let the man know that even if he was gay, it would not affect his decision to be or not be his flat-mate.

It ended up being one of those painfully uncomfortable moments. John had survived them in the past. Sorry, I don't want to have a shag with you, but it was somehow much more humiliating when it came from a man. He had no wish to ever be with a man and yet, here he was being treated as if he'd just made a pass at him.

A few hours later, he found the need to call on his perpetual acquaintance. He shot, once. He murdered as coolly as if he had never heard the words, do no harm. He gave no thought to the consequences as he raised the pistol and did what needed to be done to save the life that mattered. He knew his own was probably ruined in that flash and scent of powder. But, one life needed existence among the three of them. His acquaintance could not have Sherlock.

His kidnapper, it turned out, was no dark threat against his new friend. The man with the umbrella and the notebook about his personal details was just Sherlock's brother. Sherlock had a brother. John decided that Sherlock could be the most interesting person he'd ever met.

He had no idea what he'd just gotten himself into. He had not even requested to view the room he expected to occupy. It did not matter. Nothing mattered except for the light that shone from the man as his chin caressed the violin and the constant thrill the world presented in adrenalin rush as long as he was allowed to be his audience.

If anyone was ever in the need of an actual friend, it was Sherlock. And if anyone was ever in need of a Sherlock, it was John. John had found home. He canceled his woeful appointment as well as his useless therapy sessions and moved his pathetic array of possessions into the life of Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock became his therapy. He became Sherlock's therapy as well.

For the first time in his life, he was filled with purpose. If Sherlock had been a baker of cakes or a jewel thief, John would have helped. It turned out he was an oddly unemployed detective of some sort who forgot to eat, who smoked like a chimney, who rarely slept at all, who had a drug addiction from time to time, who was the most annoying being to ever exist. John was insanely happy in his presence, when he wasn't grossed out, confused or offended. John learned quickly to prepare himself before opening the refrigerator. He may be a doctor, but he had never once taken any flesh trophies of his work home for display in the cooler. Eventually, by the time their time and adventures were near an end, John thought he was prepared.

The possibility had certainly never stopped them from dashing into danger. One of them or both of them could die. It was understood. But, not on purpose. Not like that. Not Sherlock.

Sherlock was as brass as a candlestick. Sherlock was as golden as a halo. Sherlock was as detailed as the devil. John no longer met the eyes of the shadow. John is, for the first time in his life, truly alive. He did know from experience that Sherlock could die. He knew that in the end, it was more than likely that Sherlock would get John killed in one of his save the world adventures. They needed it for different reasons, but they both needed danger. But he never would have guessed that Sherlock would just give up. Giving up was not an option so long as they were together, because they were invincible as a team.

Best friends on the road to perdition.

Two souls in danger of the fall.

The brilliant searing sun and his sidekick the cool quiet moon.

Sherlock and just John.

Sometimes he does lose his temper with him. Sometimes he just wants a more definite reaction, an acknowledgement, an emotional impossible from Sherlock.

John and he had been skittering around the change in how they viewed the other for some time. They had somehow become a couple, without becoming a couple. John and he had never discussed the way they interacted now. It was ignored and carefully avoided on all surface levels.

John dated. Sherlock did not. John pretended. Sherlock never once denied anyone's claim that there was more than danger and cases between them. He never confirmed it either, but John was the one who always had to defend the status of single and straight.

John did wonder if he meant more to Sherlock then he said. John knew something was wrong with him in that he was no longer as offended by such comments. John had lost his complete aversion to the knowing looks and constant assumptions about what kind of partners they were. It even pleased him secretly when a man would look at Sherlock with appreciation and then look at him with a brooding jealousy. Nothing was going on, intentionally, yet John was slightly flattered in some way that everyone assumed John was in Sherlock's league. Sherlock could have had anyone, male or female.

Yet Sherlock was his in all the ways that mattered. They trusted each other. They were closer than anyone and really other than sex, they completed the others needs for everything. If they needed to talk, or rant or bicker or laugh or just know that someone in the world needed them to be there every day, they had found their perfect match. There were no words of this slow depth they had reached, but sometimes there was something. There were these looks in which their eyes met and locked for far too long. There were personal space issues that seemed near electric.

John had even wondered on two occasions if Sherlock was about to kiss him. He wondered if he would stop him if he did. He noticed how many times they were working and Sherlock seemed determined to hover near John rather than snatch the item and maintain his distance. John knew he felt things he wasn't quite capable of admitting.

The question was if he did let go and feel these things would he end up being another Molly? Molly would have done anything to get Sherlock to give her a second look, yet Sherlock seemed to go out of his way to be especially aloof and abrasive to her. If Sherlock realized he was feeling similar emotions, would Sherlock make John his new Molly? Would he lose this place he has now and become just another pathetic thing Sherlock ignored aggressively.

He was unwilling to bring up the subject. Sherlock had yet to make his own personal field of attraction a solid statement. John had tried to catch him looking lustfully at anything other than dead things, but had yet to see the expression demonstrated on Sherlock's face with any other human being. He sometimes thought maybe he saw it pointed his way, but it always vanished before he could be sure.

John had been in this limbo of confusion for some time and yet had no way to settle it one way or the other without gambling everything. He'd hinted. He had let Sherlock catch him peeking at him with the question blazing in his eyes. Sherlock would turn the corners of his mouth up for a split second and pick up his violin.

So, in anger he'd lashed out when Sherlock seemed so annoyed that Mrs. Hudson had inconvenienced his thinking schedule by getting shot.

Had John broken his heart with that hateful word?

"Machine." He hadn't meant it. He'd meant, notice me, explain to me, help me understand, let me in. Let me help. Stop being right and just be less wrong. He'd meant, If I can't hurt you, then it is true that you can't love me. That you don't' love me. That you never will love me. Please, stop being fake and show me you give a damned. Please love me back.

And then he did.

Sherlock on the roof of Saint Bart's.

And John's soul screamed for the man who didn't scream as he tumbled. John's old friend had stolen him. Death laughed at John as he flew away with the spirit of Sherlock Holmes.

Holmes

The gravestone said in shiny granite, solid and sure.

It may as well have said Holmes and Watson.

As Holmes silently passed the third story, still accelerating toward maximum free-fall velocity, Johnny Watson, died first, screaming in the perdition he created with that one word he'd said. Machine.

John stopped living and felt like a hero every single day he didn't die of a broken heart. He became that Machine he had accused his friend of being.

He wanted Sherlock to prove he loved John enough to be capable of pain. John deserved to make a mistake. John deserved to have a day in which he went overboard just a little. Sherlock had said things that were much worse in terms of hurtful to John and yet, Sherlock didn't know any better. It was so much worse that John should have known better and chose to hurt him with intent. He had as good as murdered Sherlock with his own hand.

The Doctor had done harm. Sherlock gave him his show. He made him stand there and he cried on the phone. Sherlock loved him enough that just one word from The Doctor could destroy the entire world. He didn't push him off the ledge. No, in the eyes of the law, John Watson was innocent of any wrong doing. But John knew. God, how was he to live with it? Sherlock would never have lost his last tiny fierce thread of hope if Watson had not stood there callously snipping with his good pair of doctor scissors.

Who's the freak now Sherlock? Who is the one who called and fell to his death, just because his needy weak best friend let him down? Who was the fake after all? John didn't need the judge's gavel or the slam of a metal cage door, to know he was guilty. He killed Sherlock because he is the one who put him on that roof in the first place.

Tell everyone, I am a fake, a fraud_. Did that really mean… Because if you don't believe in me, I don't care what any of the rest of the world thinks. Let them scourge my name for all time, because you picked what you wanted the most, John. You wanted to blend and be mediocre. You wanted to be with them and not me. So be it. _

_I'm bored and I am off for the next adventure, John. _

**This phone call, it's... it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note.**

**Goodbye**

**John**

And there had been two terrible thuds. One is a bicycle knocking into him. As the cyclist looked up at the falling man, he'd inadvertently made contact with the man who was now fallen. Fallen to perdition. John Watson the Doctor of destruction.

A life well lived comes from the structured pursuit of meaningful happiness.

That stopped existing for Dr. John Watson the moment he really understood the full measure of his actions and the full depths of how much he had missed in his friend. He was faking things. He faked the aloof disdain. Sherlock had been right, John was not smart enough to see the love Sherlock had felt for him. He didn't believe in the devil and he missed the details of the truth about Sherlock.

John was a man of science. He never believed in a real hell or eternal damnation. He did have hope for heaven or at least something that could let him one day again be near the spirit of Sherlock. He didn't deserve it. He deserved Perdition. Good intentions could make that place real, but hurtful intentions made John walk boldly under the sign. Sherlock hung the sign that welcomed him to hell.

It read, "You didn't pay attention. So now you must deduce."

That was what Sherlock's last phone call meant to John Watson_. Is this big enough for you to see? Can your simple little mind conceive what I felt for you now? How carelessly you took my secretly offered heart and weighed it and bagged it. Now move on and figure out all the clues I left you. _

The will is read. John vomits at the huge estate. Mycroft offers to continue to manage the holdings, just like he always had for his brother. John shakes his head. " I don't want it. I don't want any of it."

"It may come to pass that you will find use for it. Perhaps you will wish some remembrance of him, in the form of a scholarship, or you may someday require it while clearing his name. Don't throw it away. Don't insult this last thing he wished. He had faith you would use it for good. He saw such good in you, John. Never forget that," Mycroft had said quietly in his bland demanding way.

They were meant to be words of comfort. Mycroft couldn't have known of their last words in person. Mycroft couldn't know he'd just locked the gates to hell. The violin is silent here in the abyss.

Life with Sherlock was full of notes. So was death. They had begun with a note that wasn't a note, but the interpretation of a music note brought to life. They ended with a note that wasn't a note, but a call which brought death. There were notes everywhere. They clogged every cubby of the apartment, filled with his scrawling short hand involving cases. They had appeared on his phone each time SH had a detail to share.

They had been tucked under a cushion, half finished, never to be fulfilled. John had stopped eating by then. He held the partial compositions in his lap and smeared them with tears.

Ode to my John in spring_. Dead notes from a brilliant mind._

John in E flat, staccato_. 'Hurry John, I am bored.'_

Autumn leaves with the grace of John _Oh. God. Sherlock. Why. _

No longer music, just notes.

Lost like him. Lost like Sherlock.

_"I'm not a psychopath, I'm a highly functioning sociopath. Do your research."_

"We've got a serial killer! Love those, there's always something to look forward to."

"Mrs. Hudson took my skull."

Donovan: "Are these human eyes?"  
>Sherlock: "Put those back!"<br>Donovan: "They were in the microwave!"  
>Sherlock: "It's an experiment!"<p>

_John: "You, ripping off my clothes in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk."  
>Sherlock: "People do little else."<em>

The unseen clues, his unsaid words. John had seen but not observed. Sherlock had observed but was not able to deduce the impossible. Love is impossible. It killed Sherlock. Did that mean he'd been right all along?

John walked through each day, aloof to his shadows, but believing, hoping, praying for the impossible. It was all he had left.

_I was so alone and I owe you so much. Please, there's just one more thing. One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be... dead. Would you do that, just for me? Just stop, just stop this..._

And so ended the first perdition and the second perdition slipped into being.

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><p>Thank you for reading - I would love to hear your opinion and having now seen the first season {{{{{happy dance}}}}}} I hope I fixed the time line some. I know my first night with the violin didn't occur, but I think I fixed it enough that it could have. Please, please review.<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

The Perditions of John

2nd Perditon

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
><strong>Realm<strong>: _Sherlock_  
><strong>Story Title<strong>: The 2nd Perdition of John  
><strong>Summary<strong>:_ John fights for reasons to stay, but when he accomplishes them what is left?_  
><strong>CharacterRelationships**: John/Sherlock

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><p>Faking.<p>

In the first weeks, John faked it. He opened his eyes and parroted the things that he was expected to say. He closed his eyes and sobbed into Sherlock's pillow, begging. John offered any entity his very soul just for a year, a month, a week, a chance, a single fucking day to spend with him. So much needed saying and he'd never get the chance.

No entity wanted his tarnished putrid soul. John was soon inviting his acquaintance for dinner. He often drank too much to cook for him by the time he was supposed to arrive. Death was angry with John. He was standing him up on the dinner invitations. John was being watched unofficially by his colleagues. It was standard friendship procedure. John did have friends. Everyone loved John. He was just so bloody oblivious since he'd gone around the bend about that crazy Yard devil.

John was not gay. John was not a criminal justice major. They did know that John was a bit of a thrill seeker and they all assumed that beings this Holmes fellow seemed predisposed to disaster, perhaps John found it intoxicating. It, being danger, violence, trouble and general chaos, was their only explanation for his unexplainable attachment to the strange and, though brilliant, illusively manipulative Scotland yard snob.

Everyone loved John, but they could barely stand his flat-mate. He was from some kind of family. That man is uncouth, discourteous, and without a farthing worth of charm. The Holmes' have been behind the crown for generations, but sometimes they throw an off sprout. They couldn't keep him in a school but he has the other side of that savant coin. It was all very mysterious. They whisper hope that this infatuation with his intellectual assets and ridiculous stunts doesn't suck John down the drain with him. He's awkward and he may be completely insane. John turns them down, more and more. But there is only so much a friend can do.

Poor John, what could he be thinking? Perhaps there is more to this, he may be assisting the family to keep up with their little rebel freak. That made the most sense really. John was a good person. John is an adult and certainly smart enough to determine when he's fed up with the embarrassment of it all.

Then the bloody idiot leaps from the roof.

It's in all the papers. His friends avoid the subject near John, but the darting eyes, the elbow bumps and the unveiled weather fascination don't really fool John. It's all anyone is discussing these days. There is no escape. He hears remarks he would have killed someone for not so long ago. He ignores them as best as he can now, he can't kill them all. Well, he chooses not to take that path, though it makes the inner fury boil because he still hears every word like a hot poker at his neck.

John seems philosophically aloof at work. They don't blame him for any of it. Must be terrible to have been employed to keep a man like that stable and have failed so spectacularly. They try to be supportive. They try to put him back in his slot among them. John had always been the easy going dependable bloke who they set up with cousins and friends of friends. He was a bit on the dullish side, a sweet clueless buffoon of sorts, but his prospects were his redemption.

They had all agreed that John would be a grand addition to family if the right girl could just be found for him. John would make a stable, kind husband and a sweet dedicated father. He may not inspire the dreams of romance on windswept exotic beaches, but if a girl could see past his lack luster, she would find a diamond. In this day of all things fast and furious, John could offer the right woman such ease and proper manners. He was the species of nice man that mothers coveted for unruly daughters.

Dr. John Watson was considered to be on the market again, now that he had found release from his terrible obligatory friendship with the time consuming freak, was no longer a factor. They were his friends again, though something they couldn't quite admit or express seemed to have taken something out of Dr. John. When mentioned, they all blamed it on the fact that he had to feel a little off, considering he'd watched the man die before his eyes.

They did understand that John had been fond of the man, though they themselves could express few redeeming qualities for Sherlock Holmes. John barely spoke of him now. They understood. It was like losing an aged parent to dementia or a small child to a preventable tragedy. There was nothing that could have been done, but the one responsible for the departed would, of course, have to examine every moment at length to finally assuage the simple survivor guilt.

They whispered their evaluations and diagnoses, completely missing the truth. They put up with John's quiet dignified grief and they waited for time to relieve his obvious disinterest in the laughter he used to be part of. They invited him along to endless social events and took his polite deferments with grace. Some managed to get him cornered and speak frankly to him about how he must carry on, stiff upper lip, and other remarkably banal platitudes. John always maintained his good nature and his appreciation for their interest, but then he would walk away unperturbed, but unmoved.

Eventually the rumors of his possible orientation of a private nature began to circle just out of John Watson's earshot. That had slowly bled away some of his friends from constant intervention. For others, it simply shifted focus from the family damsel in matrimonial pursuit, to the closet cases of the kin in question. It was speculated that perhaps they had missed the important signals of John's true nature. Perhaps he was less manipulated by that Holmes man and much more heartsick over him. This new frame of sympathy, closer to truth but still so far below the realm of reality, brought new waves of sympathetic sentiments that served only to feed John's need for aloof distance.

New eyes examined the seemingly obvious answers. There had been a certain allure to that taciturn flat-mate of his. Holmes had been most attractive ascetically in his tailored cloths and stylishly off beat grace. He had that understated panache of truly great wealth. Poor John, silently mourning a lover and they had taken so long to catch on.

John was determined to wallow in his lonely tragic world. The friends began to forget to bother to ask him to their little gatherings. He'd been absent for some time and this finally became accepted as who he was. A friend can only do so much and eventually they gave up trying to make it better for him.

John existed in fog and half-lit fantasy of his own demise. He drank. He even took up smoking. He ate only when forced. His first few months of sleeping obsessively gave way to sleeping little, unless he was sleeping it off. Strangely, he looked healthier now. He had lost some of his budge around the middle. His features grew angular and his physique took on the tone of the soldier's workouts he forced himself to do just to exhaust himself enough for sleep. He often wore Sherlock's clothing. It was not tailored for him so it always looked a bit like wealth unkempt, or as if he was shopping at one of the second hand places pretending he still had money as could be seen around London often by those who observed such things about other people, but it made him feel close to peaceful to be held in something Sherlock had worn.

People seemed fooled by his self-hatred, misinterpreted by the wishers of wellness and the stiff upper lip proponents. They concluded, that his new and very pleasing frame, must indeed speak of his sexuality. He had always been well groomed, but in London, in the medical field, that could not ever be counted on as a sole indicator of lifestyle. Doctors had to be perfectly groomed. Who wanted a shaggy slob explaining grandmother's cancer treatment to them?

Fine.

That's how he was doing these days.

That's how he responded to all inquiry to his life.

That is how the line could be described between his survival day to day and his will to follow his northern star to freedom from the pain.

There were days that he managed better. There were days, he still hoped that Sherlock had somehow outwitted his acquaintance of decay. But time was not healing John's wounds. Time was not on his side in this case. Time was the master of his daily schedule, but it cost him dearly. The price time demanded for its services was a small leaking current of hope within John's spirit.

Sherlock could out think anything. Never mind he'd taken his pulse, held his dead hand, seen the height from which he'd sustained the injuries, gone to his funeral, visited his grave, and seen his dead eyes with mismatched pupils. John still had hope. He didn't get rid of Sherlock's belongings. He didn't spend his money. He waited. He watched strangers carefully for the signs of disguise. He waited for a balding old man or an awkwardly tall house frau to fall into step with him and reveal that it had all been just a magic trick like he'd said that day. He trusted. He believed. He could not exist without this self-deceptive little mirage.

He rifled through Sherlock's belongings, carefully, sacredly and yet he studied this man's every scribble searching for one of his subtle clues to deduce what his mind wanted to believe. Sometimes he would leap upon a scrap of nothing, calling Greg with unfettered excitement, begging the man to agree that it was important. Greg was patient, but he was also firm. He did not feed John's hope with false dribbles of maybe. He visited with a bottle of expensive highland scotch and the official and complete autopsy report. They had weighed and photographed the organs, standard procedure of course, and he must face the truth.

The brilliant mind of Sherlock Holmes glared upon glossy Kodak paper in full color, naked, pink and exposed. That mass of jelly had stopped functioning nine months ago. It was time for John to find his way or find himself some help. John was used to seeing body parts lounging on Molly's scale. He didn't bat an eye about it. But this was the empty container of his Sherlock. This had once pulsed with overwhelming brilliance. This was the most horrific moment in his life as the true consequences of this bit of tissue, just meat like all the rest of them, sat without fanfare in a stainless steel pan, before an uncaring camera.

John wanted it to be a lie. But Greg cried as he laid other bits before John on the table. "Believe me, I can barely look myself. It doesn't matter how we think when it is strangers, when it is a friend, it messes with our heads."

Sherlock, skull exposed and topped for examination, his curls folded forward and his face pulled into the gruesome distortion of the autopsies procedure. Molly, face hard with grief, and streaked with tears as she had sewn up the examinations damage with more care than he himself could have managed. A picture of his flat-mates Y-incision, sewn back together with thousands of tiny delicate stitches and not the ugly black quick-stitches most people received.

"She spent hours at that. For him. She said he was full of secret vanity and he deserved to be … cared for. This was done in a respectful manner, far above what you or I will ever rate. You have seen the toxicology report. He was as clean and sober as he'd surprisingly ever been. He was not drugged or hallucinating. He made his choice and made certain none of us would have any chance to save him. You must accept he left us. He made the call."

"I will never believe it." John kicks his head back, trying to not cry.

"John, we can't do anything else for him. I know. I know you and he were … more than mere … friends. I don't know how far and I don't want to know, because it isn't my business and I don't care. I am here, because, there have been some who have mentioned you are not managing this. I do understand the desire to hope above all facts. But he wouldn't want to see you like this. I can't stand to see you do this any longer. You have to accept this. Grieve. Stop cursing your life with this obsessive false footing. I have seen this sort of thing. You have too."

John swallows and nods. " They always seemed so delusional. Am I?"

Lestrade sighs and shakes his head, "You are getting there old friend. I don't know if you are lost but you are going to slip soon. I don't see any cat boxes yet, have you any feline adoption whims or are you just stalking the shelters for now?"

John genuinely laughs for the first time in an eternity. Maybe it is the smooth liquor making him feel less despondent, or maybe it is the cold truth of the photo's again packed safely in the file and locked back in the inspector's briefcase. Maybe it is the finality of it all that has unburdened him slightly, but John laughs heartily at the image of himself sequestered in this empty apartment with three dozen cats and, and a box of new kittens scampering through the piles of Sherlock's life.

"No. I am not Cat-daddy crazy. Yet."

"Good to know. " There is quiet for a moment as Greg debates his next question. "You can tell me, you know. You don't have to hold it all so dammed tightly. Known a bit of buggery myself in the days before I said the words of eternal torment. I wasn't always such an arrow before I let my life slip away with the old 'I do' bullet."

John looks at him in anger but it melts to resolved guilt. "I can't say you would be wrong. I have never. I deal with it all the time of course with patients, and there were jokes made of course, but we were never. Not even a kiss, Greg. Yet, to deny that something had affected me seems pointless now. I am not opposed to homosexuality, it just never crossed my mind. I always was certain I was a skirt chasing believer in true love. I am certain I found the true love part in a most unexpected place. "

"Nothing wrong with that. He was terribly attracted to you. You do know that, right?"

John shakes his head. "I never told him. I never said to him a glimmer of how I felt…feel. I would give anything, you know? I would march into hell just to say it to him once. It is so much worse now…now that I understand. I hurt him. I wanted a reaction. I had no idea that I could possibly break his heart. He did it because of me. How do I go on, knowing he died… because it was the only way he knew to make me see?"

"You don't believe that. Tell me that hasn't been bouncing around in your head all this time—"

"I never told a soul. Only realized it myself as I watched the dirt fill in. I knew, but I lied to myself. I love him. Oh God, I love him. I never bothered to tell him and he died not knowing. He died because I was too much of a coward to give him a strand of kindness. I was so angry. I was afraid they were going to kill him and he was taking chances and hiding things from me. How could he do that to me the blasted second he was safe? How could he hate me so? I will never forgive myself. The bastard killed himself and my heart, my soul, everything I was, just stepped off the ledge and ended. I am beyond grief. I sometimes don't even … " John zoned out, his face bland as his eyes focused far away, spilling over with the tears he'd never allowed anyone to view. He'd done so well at keeping his disguise glued in place, but finding someone who could see him so easily, had exposed his secret.

Lestrade only hesitated for a moment before pulling John to his shoulder and offering him the comfort the rest of the world lacked. He held him tight, like a father comforting a son. He wasn't after an inconspicuous seduction or vying to take Sherlock's place, despite his admission of his younger wilder days. But the poor man needed someone who really could accept how badly he needed someone to just know and acknowledge that Sherlock had crossed the borders of all self-styled life expectations.

He murmured kind things to John, soothing his deeply held sorrow as best he could. "Sherlock was special. He was beyond anyone's ability to truly see. He would never have done this out of cruelty. He just didn't know how to fix things like normal people would. I am sure he did love you, but if you had any part in his decision, you have to believe it was because he must have convinced himself that he would only do you harm by giving in to his own feelings. He didn't do well with emotional attachments and yet holding them in check didn't stop them from existing."

"That is not making me feel better."

" John. You have to find some way. You have to let it be. He gave you no option and made his choice. It could be that he was too afraid to tell you. Imagine what he must have believed. He was unable to process that he had changed what you believed about yourself. He believed you were never going to realize what he couldn't even tell you that he wanted most. He wanted you and yet, you were not a possibility. He was so without any bounds of reason in this area. You are probably the only thing he'd ever had this reaction to. Think about that. He'd never been in love. He was possibly still a virgin, I mean he never has been with anyone to my knowledge. Imagine being his age as the real thing crashes into you as your first experience. It must have been terrible for him. You were something he's losing control over. The accusations. His life falling apart. He didn't have the ability to deal with it all and realize it could blow over in time. He didn't have the patience. He probably reasoned that this was better than letting you be stained with his own disgrace. "

"Do you really think?"

"Did he love you? I don't just think it, look at the evidence. Do you know how many flat mates he'd been through? Do you have any idea how many of them lasted less than a week? I don't know if you realize this, But Mycroft came to me only two months after you moved in. He was livid. Sherlock had changed his will and Mycroft wanted that gold digger, meaning you, away from his little brother. He was pretty sure the two of you were a couple. He wouldn't have believed that if Sherlock had not indicated some affirmation of that?"

"That's impossible."

"No. Sherlock knew. All that time ago. He loved you. He didn't tell you. It isn't your fault. It isn't really his either. He depended on you. That was the best you could have imagined if only you could have seen what he was like with some of his other co-occupants. It was a selfish thing for him to do. But I think in his mine, maybe he was just saving you from the embarrassment he was sure you'd feel at that time, if he told you the whole truth. He didn't see it with a clear mind, because he'd rather hurt himself than take a chance that he would harm you with his misplaced adoration. Brilliance without faith, without that ridiculous bit of hope we count on, he simply couldn't understand. It isn't his fault that he lacked any way to process that what can't be observed can still be possible. Do you see what I am saying? "

"We had so little time and yet we wasted it."

"You can dwell on that, if you would like. Tear yourself inside out if that is what you want. Here's the trouble with that. You are wasting all he must have seen in you. He often forgave us for not being as smart as he was. He knew we had no tool to fix that we were not as nimble of mind as he was. I think you have to look at it just like that here. You have to forgive him for not having a nimble heart that he had no tools to change. Can you do that? Don't you want to?"

"It doesn't matter. Nothing matters to me. Not a bloody thing. I have nothing. Nothing to give to anyone. I don't … want anyone. Not even, just to be a meaningless shag. I don't even…"

"I get it. I do. Depression and you know it. Not as easy when it isn't just a definition and list of symptoms. I lost a partner once. It wasn't like this, but there was that hero worship sort of love. Like a combat brother. He taught me everything, put up with my crap and then he was gone. I thought I would die of the crushing hatred for the soulless bastards who killed him."

John sat up interested in this, "How? What helped you get past it?"

"I solved the case. I caught his killers. It was all I lived for. I had a rough time once they were all punished, once the job was over, but it helped. I could breathe again. I felt this pleasure, like maybe he was pleased. It was almost like he was proud of me. And I met the Missus and settled down to a house and kids and normal. If you can find one thing that matters. It might keep you from your constant dwelling on fault long enough to get you past the worst of it. I can't lie to you. It won't ever go away all the way. But, it gets more manageable. "

John let the words sink into him, but he couldn't come up with one thing he cared about in the whole world.

Lestrade watched him contemplate, through two more glasses of scotch each. Finally he guided him a little. "What about him? You still care for him?"

John shook his head. "Like you said, I can't do anything for him. Which pretty much puts me right back into the planning my own leap, so to speak. Not a damned thing I can do for him, but join him."

Lestrades's heart stopped for a second. He's admitted it like it was of no more importance than a grocery list, just like Sherlock used to do before John showed up and seemed to cure him of such utterances. "John. That isn't funny, and I know you don't mean it to be, but you must be aware that this self-destruct gene was in him all along. It runs in families you know. Before he met you, it was a common threat. Mycroft covered for him. Anyone else would have found themselves institutionalized. It was not your fault. It was NOT your fault John Watson. If anything it was all of us. The whole damned world in doubt of him."

John nodded in terminal despair at how his indescribably beautiful Sherlock would be remembered. His eyes locked to Lestrade. "That's it. I have something I can do for him. I can.. Oh my god. I can prove that I love him, and keep it a secret too. I can clear his name. I can make him be seen for who he was. I can give him a place besides the star of the circus. I can put his star back in the sky, where it belongs. Oh my God, what have I been thinking? I have been letting them say all those things. Greg, you're a genius."

"Well I will leave the genius bit to you and him. I'm just old. I'm just a stupid old bobby who has been through it all ten times over. I've seen. Experience isn't genius. But if you find anything, anything real. Not doodles and not that chicken scratch of his, and you need me to help, or get you something you need, even quietly, if you follow. I'm in. I'm all in. I hope you can find a starting place, because I have been working on it this whole time and haven't got a trail of piss to follow. Here, brought you something, just in case."

Lestrade stood and set the briefcase on the table again. The folders all bulging with mismatched papers trying to escape, landed on the table with a resolved heavy thunk.

John looked up then back down at the folders. "A case. Of course. A case. I need a case and this one, I need most of all. Thank you."

Lestrade felt chipper as he left the flat whistling. He had been watching the Doc since he'd invaded Sherlock's life. There were only subtle hints really, but he saw them. Greg smiled. Sherlock may have not been in love with him, but he'd still rubbed off on Greg over the years. Being near Sherlock for very long was a hell of an education.

"There you go old friend, " he said three blocks from the flat, "I can't fix what you did to him you bloody arse, but I will try to keep him from being planted next to you anytime soon."

The night was beautiful.

John's mind could not be compared to Sherlock's intellect. That didn't mean he was stupid either. John was a doctor and he could only achieve that because he was brilliant when compared to the general population. Only near Sherlock did he lose the races, and certainly not all the races. Sherlock had spaces of vast material storage in his mind, yet in some ways he was nearly stunted by any average man standards. Sherlock had a mind for puzzles far above any conceivable intelligence range, yet he could not remember to eat or pay rent or contemplate the solar system. Simple things were beyond him. John functioned well in vastly more subjects then Sherlock. He had the ability to slowly plod along and do most anything well with practice.

He had studied his friend, learning his details and his methods, and like calculus or advanced anatomy or firing a tiny lead projectile from a tube of steel, John had his own formulas and ways of creating success.

It took him several trips to St Bart's to get comfortable on the roof. He finally faced one demon. He stood in that spot and looked down. The wind filled him with fear and the sun blazed anger, but the place itself made his heart beat with a lust to invite his acquaintance into his own possibility. He didn't hesitate to step up. He had a tingly desire to imagine exactly that moment again, from Sherlock's perspective.

He could see a ghostly cab, stop and his time faded self, emerge. The exact moments went through his head. John, he should speak to him. He could imagine reaching into the satin pockets of the familiar coat, deep and soothingly slipping over his knuckles as he pulled his phone from his pocket. The words were branded into his mind and John stood on the ledge, dissecting them sentence by sentence.

These were the moments he knew. He played them in his mind, and yet, somehow standing here contemplating the finality of the concrete below, he realized what he'd missed all along. It wasn't possible. Sherlock would have never picked this. The possibility of survival was small, but Sherlock would never play a game he could lose so badly. Suicidal at times, yes. Hell putting himself in danger, on the edge was his greatest addiction, but putting himself into a situation of irrevocable damage and long term care, would never have done.

Sherlock's ego, would never allow himself to have made such an error. Now if he'd fed a lethal cocktail into his veins and wobbled unconscious off the roof, as a second measure of surety, John could believe. But, this was not high enough alone, when there were so many better options. He was perfectly calculating and lucid when he said the last words. Why then. Why that moment.

"It's a magic trick."

"I researched you, to impress you."

"Sherlock?" John said out loud. You were trying to impress me. This is not very impressive. You couldn't have researched me, because Mike didn't tell you I was coming. But a suicide, you would have researched. You would not do it this sloppily by your own will. Magic trick.

John stared at the pavement. His head shook. Sherlock loved high places. The image of him standing on the stones his coat flapping in the wind and of the moon behind him as he leaped high on a roof as graceful as a manor cat. He must have been so afraid. Yet he lied to me. Why was that the most important part?

John stood on the ledge in a contemplative parade rest, far from afraid, more like in communion with Sherlock. You lied. The last thing you needed to say and it was a lie. Why. The way you ended it. A stupid choice for a brilliant man. An easily disproven lie for your … me. To leave me what. Angry? Lost? Or did you know I would nip at your heals, not just your pet faithful dog, but you own hound of the Baskervilles?

He had turned to look at something. No someone. There had been blood, but no actual body on the roof. If someone were making me do this in some way, what would I say to him. He didn't take his eyes off me. I couldn't look away or move because he asked me to Do this for him. He gave me no time to say anything or get my thoughts in order. Yet he knew each tiny gesture would be too bright to see for a while.

He threw the phone. He didn't take me with him. He. Didn't. Take me. With him, but he kept his eyes on me. Johns eyes snapped open. "Sherlock." Johns head tilted and he got Goosebumps. Watched. He was being watched and Sherlock was being watched that day.

"Dr, Watson, I need you to please step away from the ledge" Came a shaking voice, behind him.

John spun and grinned, hopping down with a shrug.

It took hours of careful calm explanation and a phone call to Lestrade to keep him out of the psyche ward that day. Lestrade had come round to collect him, acting annoyed with him and the procedure. As soon as they were out of earshot of hospital administration he went through round two of the 'is this a suicide threat' routine.

John laughed and said it did cross his mind in a sick wish to be like him, connected to him, but until the name Sherlock Holmes was again spoken of with awe and respect, his flying days would be limited to helicopter.

He eased Lestrades's mind and not only that, the first fire he'd seen in John since that terrible day was dancing in the sparkling mirth filling his eyes.

Lestrade stopped short and turned to John. "You found something. You did?"

John shook his head. "Not precisely, but I did deduce some very enlightening truths. Something forced him. Not physically, something got in his head and it wasn't me. The fake call from you that wasn't you about Mrs. Hudson. The choice of method. Greg, he would not have been opposed to ending his life. His life was a toy to Sherlock. But that was not lethal enough. His ego would never have picked something he could have survived. He would have asked me questions and the second he realized he could survive with a damaged mind, he would have made other arrangements."

"Maybe he just snapped? He met him up there, watched him…"

"No. He was not being vindictive to me. He was not confessing his sorrow at his enemy's demise. Don't you see? He was trying to make it easy for us. He was sacrificing all he was, to stand there and make it so we would not love him. He was crushing our vision of who he believed himself to be. Sherlock would only do that for something more important than himself. He didn't want to die, but he felt it would accomplish something. He stepped off for something he feared more than the landing. I don't know what. I don't know what he could have felt deserved to wipe every trace of him out of the world. "

"He would have proved himself right before." Lestrade looks back toward the direction they came from and whistles. "This must be some kind of big missing link, John. I assume you are going to be following. You will have to be reasonably careful you know. If it is something too big for him, he wouldn't want you to…"

" He wasn't up there to hurt me. He reached out to me. He wanted me to be the last thing he saw. Not to hurt me, though it did, not to punish me for being an arse for a second, but as if begging me to see. See him. Know him well enough to observe. I was only observing up there today. I was playing the tape again, not letting my emotions cloud what actually occurred." John admits looking at the sky, as if telling Sherlock too.

John kept seeking. It was a form of perdition to be on Sherlock's death trail, trying to imagine his every thought and relay it to action, But John strolled the road with a new bounce to his walk and the ability to blog again. Following Sherlock, seeking the hidden truth, made him feel he had purpose again.

It only took him a few weeks actually. Once John set his mind to really see all that was there, he found Sherlock. He found his clues and followed them to the truth. He found the small bits that put him in pursuit of the why, right in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen as she complained of the nice plumber who had suddenly been called away before finishing his job. Mrs. Hudson's sink was still in clogged disarray all these months later. John made inquiry as to why the company had not returned to finish the job. They had no employee that fit the incompetents' description, nor any record of a service call to 221 Baker.

The work should have only taken a few moments, but the man had tinkered under the sink for two hours. He was no plumber. John searched her kitchen and it was a simple matter to discover that Mrs. Hudson had had something besides a plumber in her kitchen that day. There were blood stains under the sink. He had banged his knuckles attempting the simplest of routine chores. Only an amateur would have injured himself trying to remove the entire s-curve trap. He had left behind smudges of his telltale real profession. There had been gun oil on his fingers, causing him to slip repeatedly.

Mycroft was invaluable.

John told him what he'd figured out. There were cameras in the vicinity. They watched Sherlock and the man meet, struggle. They couldn't get the audio, but there was a partial transcript provided by experts on lip reading.

Snipers set about the city.

Sherlock Holmes jumped off a fucking building to save him and it took him this long to question that he may have not been quite as selfish of a bastard as the person he saved had thought.

Mycroft had the supposed plumber within his clutches by the next afternoon and the poor man was pleased to recount his story. It seems that he was left unpaid and on top of that, he had gone home to discover his live in girlfriend murdered. He had only managed to save himself by using the very gun he'd been expected to kill Mrs. Hudson with on the intruder who was still in his kitchen standing over the body. The man's months on the lamb had taken a toll on his health severely. Cash worked far quicker than intimidation.

John learned why Sherlock had to jump. Mycroft and he worked together and before the week was up, they had begun a friendly sort of alliance. They quietly rid the world of Sherlock's reasons. The Plumber was an exception, because he had proved himself both a small potato and the key to really solving the whole thing.

Mycroft was pleased but warned John that the London web was but the tip of the iceberg. John extended his willing hand and his service to Mycroft without reservations. It wasn't at an end, but John had done something. He'd had made a difference.

When the London network was in effect of no more importance, John turned his attention to his blog and wrote of his adventures. Strangely, people were interested, though the press was painfully slow to recant their horrible words about Sherlock Holmes. There were cases of graffiti all over the city and a small riot broke out aimed mostly at the press. The public was demanding that people pay attention.

There was a new rally in London. Word of mouth had people tentatively speaking well of his old flat-mate.

It was a Sunday special edition, that brought John both pure triumph and abject pain. His Sherlock was in the news again.

"The life and tragic death of a hero scourged and redeemed."

The world had lost a great man. People who never had a kind word for the man in person, recounted details of him with fondness. John was pleased. Sherlock had told him once to never make a hero of him, for he would disappoint him. He did it anyway, and Sherlock disappointed him. He didn't magically leap out of his grave and make it all better for John.

John stood in the cemetery, not sure how to feel anymore. Maybe he was moving on."I have done the unthinkable, Sherlock. I have survived this horror by doing the one thing you would probably hate me for. You're a damned legend now. You are a dead hero, worshiped for his emotional sacrifice. Held up as the measure of a good soul. Yet, I am still without you. I ask myself, what now? I am supposed to be happy now, moving on. I have a bit, you know. But, you are not here. I'm alone and all I want is to follow you. Could you forgive me if I did?"

John felt his skin prickle. He searched the surroundings, while pretending to pray. He turned back to the stone, pushing off the sensation to his own foolish hope. "If only I could have told you this thing on my heart. Seen you laugh at me for it, maybe then. I will never know for certain now. I have to deduce what you meant and it just isn't good enough. Some nights, I think you must have known, but others I just know you didn't. What do they say about protesting too much? What if I hadn't? What if I hadn't lied to you? Or myself? If I say I am fine. Do you know the truth? Would you know? Did you?"

He lays the flowers up against the stone. "I bought something with the money, Sherlock. It was the only thing I wanted. It is a rather expensive piece of land, considering how tiny it is. But you know what they say about location. I May be moving in soon. I'm bored, you bastard. I'm bored."

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><p>Ok - let me know? Remember I have never seen the show so crit is kind of vital. I have only seen clips.<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

3rd Perdition.

The Perditions of John

3rd Perdition

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
><strong>Realm<strong>: _Sherlock_  
><strong>Story Title<strong>: The 3rd Perdition of John  
><strong>Summary<strong>:_ Texting, appointments, disappointments and resurrection. _  
><strong>CharacterRelationships**: John/Sherlock

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><p>The anniversaries were hard. John was still hanging on, riding the pleasure of usefulness when that first year slipped by. It wasn't the second year that nearly destroyed him. It was a date nobody else would see. He had been doing well actually. He'd written books about his friend that made his life bigger than life. He had written of their adventures. That was how this date had come to his attention. He had deciphered Sherlock's messy script and there were now four books detailing the adventures of the Great Sherlock Holmes. John had created a fictional man, based in reality but the public really loved a figment of the man he knew. John still loved him, more madly now than ever. He was careful to scrub those hints from his character Sherlock. That was only for him. His feelings were not for the public to pick over.<p>

He knew the exact date he met Sherlock Holmes. He knew the exact date he lost him. This was the day he crossed over. This day, from now on, he lived without Sherlock, in grief for him, longer than he had lived with him. Now there was officially more hours of sorrow then of happiness. It was a private date. It hit John like a physical blow. It was like a cancer of the heart, to know that he'd passed a point in which Sherlock should have let his heart move on a little, yet the light of him had been too much and John still craved it. He understood now he would always be addicted to this man. His life was of no matter without him and even being in the shadow of his fame, was now becoming pain.

The second year was nearing. That year and a half plus twelve days mark, the day of crossover had been much worse. He'd nearly shot himself in a single clear moment of despair. Six more months had dribbled by. He had tried to ignore that in the last six months, time had moved quickly. He'd written as obsessively as Sherlock ever worked a case and thanks to Mycroft's contacts, he'd zoomed past a normal persons publishing obstacles. The first book was a phenomenon in Europe. The other three were set to release and he was contracted for 12 more, one of which was waiting on his laptop for his final editing process. He would be on tour soon. He was off to conquer America by the end of next year if all went well.

John couldn't have cared less. He could only stand here and look at his one day home, the only splurge he'd allowed himself with Sherlock's money, where he would rest next to Sherlock someday, and secretly tease his heart with how soon he could complete his book obligations.

He would not leave until Sherlock would live forever, but as soon as that was finished, John had no intention of postponing his deepest and honestly ever-present wish. It would surprise some people, but really, he didn't feel connected to any of them now. He knew where he belonged.

Sure, he looked like he was doing well. He had women crawling out of the woodwork with offers of love and future dreams of new obligations he really had lost all desire to see come to fruition. He had always thought he would be a father, husband, and that nice little doctor that could provide a stable happy home. He laughed that instead he was a broken-hearted fool lusting for a dead man.

Appearances were deceiving. He looked no longer like the sad sack jumper ensconced tag along his Sherlock would have recognized. Some would even call him rather dashing at this point. He had absorbed something of Sherlock's fashion sense. Oh he could never pull off the understated elegance and peculiar style of Sherlock, or even the blatant old English money image of Mycroft, but John had made his way into something of a London style icon. He now wore tailored like he once wore his uniforms and lab coats. He was precisely fit, rakish and put great effort in his seemingly easy image.

Lestrade had made a pass at him one drunken evening after he'd nearly gotten himself killed on an interesting case. John had laughed in good-natured but firm denial that he could ever cheat on The Great One with another man. It didn't stop him from his random sampling of female charms, but he insisted the world never suspect he could have led a much less conventional existence for that one soul that mattered to him.

John seemed to have bloomed into the epitome of God's gift to the female population and there had been few references lately to any undercurrent of closets or rainbows associated with the crime solving team of renowned reputation. Watson was offered the sacred title of Consulting Detective which he flatly turned down stating there would only ever be one of those. Still he had been keeping himself in the loop and his constant study and expansion of Sherlock's fame had given him a deeper ability to put details into strings of flow that ended in solved.

Mycroft, of all people, had somehow become a person he looked forward to interacting with. He was surprisingly kind once they had worked together a few times. John often provided a surgeon for some nameless shadow, injured in one of Mycroft's insanity of governmental secrets. He was in some ways part of Mycroft's world now.

John didn't do it to be important or even for the thrill and he certainly would never need worry about the handsome fees paid for his silence. John had no idea how wealthy Sherlock and Mycroft had been. He never had any need to be bothered with acquiring things. Mycroft kept him abreast of the details but even that held no allure to make social contact with Sherlock's brother.

Mycroft had one gift that John could never say no to. He had the wealth of memory about Sherlock that John cherished above all things. There was always some small story, or a comment or even some quote that added a moment of light to John's dark world. He lived for tidbits. He chatted for details. He spent hours in the man's company just to hear that one moment of reminiscence about the late Holmes.

It didn't weigh on John that it was odd that Mycroft could have so many memories of moments he and Sherlock had evidently discussed John. Nothing mattered more than his Sherlock fix.

"He told me soon after the two of you met that there was far more to his John than I could imagine. I see now that he was understating that fact."

John held onto that image for days. His John. It made him feel foolishly happy.

It was that first Christmas after, when he really began to feel Mycroft knew John was in trouble.

"Sherlock would have wanted you to have this. It was our father's. Please accept it as a Christmas gift and know he would have been delighted to see you wear it." Mycroft said handing John an expensive looking box. The watch was beautiful with fine engraving.

'There is rarely time to observe all that should be seen, but love knows timeless measure.'

John smiled quietly and swallowed his thundering heart. "It sounds like something Sherlock might have said except the love part, but I can't. It's never even been worn," he says, unable to take his eyes off the words.

"He did say it. He gave it to our father. He probably never did bother to try it on." Mycroft said with a slightly guarded tone.

"Thank you, in that case. I will cherish it." John's hands had shaken as he put it on his wrist. It felt like a gift straight from the grave, meant for him.

The next year it had been a heavy coat, precisely tailored to his smaller stockier frame. It was made by the same company who had made Sherlock's trademark coat. This was not a copy of it. This one was not charcoal, but a deep umber. John felt silly in it, but he dreaded spring when it would be too warm to don it for months.

Mycroft had smiled indulgently, "I thought perhaps…"

"It's perfect. I am not sure when we became friends Mycroft, but I am thankful we are. Do you think he would, approve?"

"No. It would drive him insane. He's probably pouting on some heavenly couch at this moment fuming and shrieking that he's bored." Mycroft said softly smiling.

"I hope so. Serves him right for kicking off on me." John says then sucks in his breath realizing he's just made his first joke at Sherlock's expense since he passed away.

"He misses you too. Where ever he is." Mycroft says as if he knows it is fact.

"I was under the impression that he was not much in the way of gift giving. He gave me the impression it was a family tradition of neglect."

"He disdained the ritual. He was rarely capable of putting himself out there in that way. I still carry the umbrella he bought me, rain or shine. It means more when the gesture is so rare." Mycroft was soon called away, with business. John visited Sherlock's grave, the collar of his new coat turned up. He left a few tears from thinking about sweet memories instead of sorrow alone, his only gift for Sherlock.

Life looked so good from his outside. His own success was beginning to seem almost Sherlockian.

Life was a day to day effort from within. He still missed him with more ache then he dared examine too deeply. In the moments that he was honest with himself, there was only a single answer. When you eliminate all the impossible, only one answer remains. That answer was livid today.

He stood in this familiar place, smoking a cigarette.

"What would you think of me now? What would you have to say?"

He walked away, no longer able to imagine his voice and unable to admit that no matter how close he held him, no matter how he grew like him, John knew he was losing him. He would forget him someday and it hurt that bits of the man he loved could slip.

He met Mary two days later. In truth it was her mind that attracted him. It is her inquisitive ability to ask odd questions that mattered, reminded him of one of the things he'd missed most about Sherlock. Her humor is off-beat and though offered freely, he is soon enamored with how often she made him forget to be sad.

She made him feel alive again when she would whisper her biting sarcasm quietly from the face of a demure innocent school teacher. She wasn't brilliant, but she is very close. She asked about Sherlock and let him speak for hours as nobody else had done. She didn't care about his cases, had never read the best seller until long after they began seeing each other.

She asked what he liked for breakfast. Who his favorite author was and how that related to his personality. She let him think of the tiny details of Sherlock Holmes that nobody but he knew.

It was stupid to have made promises to her he couldn't keep. He promised to love her and honor her and he did neither. He meant to, but it was more than he had to give. She had never pushed him, but as time slowed and they lost that initial something, she somehow understood who he was having some internal impossible affair with.

The day she walked out he was so sorry. He had never meant to disappoint her. She had filed the papers and had been so very calm and understanding. She didn't leave in anger, just a sorrowful resolve.

She had quietly explained that she could never compete with his ghost. She told him that the legend was too big and too painful. They had divided their possessions considerately. She refused to touch anything that involved Sherlock Holmes, his estate or the income that his stories brought. The rest he handed to her without any resentment. He didn't need the home or possessions. He purchased 221 Baker from Mrs. Hudson for an incredibly stupid sum and moved back to his flat. He moved back to him.

He resided there alone now, unwilling to share this place of memories with anyone. It was no longer home, but it was as close as he could get in this life. Home was always going to be Holmes, not a place.

He cried for his loss and wrote and before long he stopped. Over three years had passed and it was not better. It was never going to get better. He began putting his affairs in order the day after he typed out the last book. On his blog he left a short entry.

"I have come to the end of the tale dear readers. I have finished all the accounts of Sherlock and they will be published as time goes on. I hope you enjoy them and understand. Thank you for letting me set the record straight. I am so honored by your kindness and hope his legend never disappoints you. I only wish I could live up to his expectations, no matter how impossible they have proven to be. I know my heart was always in the right place and maybe that will count."

Mycroft was on the phone within an hour of the post, with barely cloaked worry hidden in congratulations and inquiry about John's intentions for the future.

"I am soon going to be traveling. I am not certain of my itinerary but I know that there are places I wish to explore. No, Mary won't be joining me. I understand her reasons and must take all blame in the matters that led to our dissolution. I'm fine Mycroft. I appreciate your concern, but it is no longer necessary. I have finally accepted that…he …that he is lost. Perhaps a change of scenery will give me some new … material. Yes of course I will keep you informed. Mycroft, you have been a good friend to me. I wanted to tell you that I probably would have never managed to clear his name without you."

The phone call ended pleasantly. John sat in Sherlock's old chair and he closed his eyes, wanting to see his ghost clearly again.

"It won't be long now, Sherlock. I have done my best you know."

He pulled his phone out and though it was a different one now, the number was still there. He pushed it and sent a text. He had done this randomly over time. He always expected the text to bounce and be undeliverable, but it never did. Maybe it was still a working number. Probably just an oversight that some secretary of Mycroft's didn't know ought to be terminated. Perhaps it was in a bundle and the billing didn't raise questions.

[Are you bored? I bet you are. I know where you are. Should we have dinner? Together might be less boring.]

John laughed at his silly game of pretend. He laughed at what the food might be like and if he should offer to bring Sherlock's favorite take out.

He made a few calls, just those last minute bits he wanted to say. He spoke carefully, but he looked at his coffee table and felt as if he deserved this reward. He would see Sherlock soon and he couldn't help but be pleased that there would shortly be an end to this torture.

He tossed the phone down and went to shower. When he returned, the light was flashing. He made tea before flipping it open to see who had texted him.

John stared at the blocked number and the words.

[You have not moved on?]

He closed the phone, but it flashed again.

[Do you still have the ashtray?]

John knew it was someone who must have the phone now. He decided to play.

[I have your violin too. Should I bring it?] he sent to Sherlock's old number.

It was only a few heartbeats, [How did you know?]

[Know what? Whoever you are, just tell MH that this is my note. He will understand.]

John quickly prepared the syringe. He smiled at how someone would be in some hot water when they delivered that little message.

He opened the phone when it again flashed. [Look out the window. Please John. Look.] He laughed and wondered how closely Mycroft was having him watched. He complied because he knew there was no hurry. There would be no time to save him.

The street was empty.

[Do you see me?]

[nope. Nice try.]

The door to the flat swung open. John hadn't heard anyone. "That's because I am not standing in the street now. John, Please. Don't."

That voice. He turned, not afraid of his ghost, only afraid his mind had finally given up and he didn't want to die crazy.

Sherlock Holmes stood, placidly waiting for him to speak. He held his arms up as if to gentle a wild horse. His eyes darted to the syringe in John's hand. "Please, don't do anything rash, John."

"I think that is a bit late, Sherlock. I don't even remember dying."

Sherlock's brow furrows and he takes a few steps toward John. "You have not died. I am alive and I insist you put that down and remain so as well."

John grins broadly as he looks around the room. "No. There is some mistake. I must have. I planned it. And here you are, just as I hoped. No body, it should be here right by the window. I looked out the window."

"I am not dead. I am very much alive which I will be forced to prove if you don't put down that syringe. Now, John. Do this for me, then get over here and punch me or yell or throw me out, but I will not have you become lost to me in this way."

John looks down at the syringe, still loaded and ready for his exit. He is trying to understand when he is knocked to the floor by a very heavy solid ghost.

"What the bloody… You are…impossible…"John says in horror.

Sherlock pulls the syringe from John's hand and throws it, then smiles and sighs in relief. "I believe you mentioned my ability to be impossible at least once a week, thus proving my factual and obvious proof of what I just said. I am here. You are here. We are both alive. I am unable to fathom what could be going on in that funny little head of yours that you would, after all this time, choose now to become sodden in despair and force me to reveal that you have frightened me enough for one evening and I am simply thankful that your little subterfuge did not go unobserved. Now shall we have a chat, or must I restrain you until we sort this out?"

John is hyperventilating, eyes wide and filling with tears. "Sherlock? Sherlock? How? I .. I… Oh God I'm going to be ill!"

Sherlock quickly scrambles as John heads to the bathroom, not quite making it to the toilet before violent heaves and sobs mix with half formed wails of anguish. Sherlock follows and makes a face, but John falling apart before his eyes is much more important. He takes a cloth and dampens it, carefully mopping the vomit and tears away. John's emotions are manifesting in desperate wails of near insanity. Sherlock kneels down on the floor once the major heaves have passed and he wraps his arms around John, just as he's longed to do for so long.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry…" he says over and over as his former flat-mate wears himself out.

Finally, he deems it safe to help him up and John just silently stared at him in pure wonder. "I don't know what to say. How are you here? I held your hand, in the morgue. I saw the autopsy photos. I carried you and picked out a coffin for you and … dear god I have lost my mind haven't I?"

"Yes. On the lost your mind part. How could you mope for me so? I expected you to hate me and not give me more than an occasional thought. Instead you've made a bloody shrine of me and Mycroft is so highly entertained by it that he gives me not a moment's reprieve from his abominable delight. How could you do that to me?"

John's face darkens with anger. "Do that. To you? You, you are angry with me? You died for fucks sake, Sherlock? I have been … I have… All I wanted was to be… and this whole. And the fact that… I was in there killing myself just to see you so I could … and you didn't even give a flying fuck? Oh God, that is so much worse .. than…"

Sherlock turns and glares at him. "So you prefer me dead? Arrangeable." His face is hurt and his eyes blaze. "You know why. I know you do. You and Mycroft did half my work for me. I was coming back. I intended it all along. As soon as you were safe. But then you made a mockery of me and you took my place and then the other thing. I couldn't return then. I just couldn't."

"What do you mean? I made a mockery of you? My God I dedicated my every waking second to clearing your name and making them see you. See how wrong they all were. See the man I… " John looks on the verge of tears again. "I can't believe you're ashamed of me. I don't even have any words for that Sherlock. I would rather you hadn't stopped me than know that." John's voice loses all anger, he is so quiet and his head darts about, looking, searching the room no longer caring that Sherlock is there.

"John, I could never be…."

"Get the fuck out."

"John."

John's eyes are pure insanity and fire as he shoves Sherlock away from him hard enough that he goes sprawling on the floor. John is fast and determined; he has the needle and doesn't stop. He darts up the stairs to his now deserted room.

Sherlock trails after him a second too late before the door slams and the lock engages. Sherlock doesn't hesitate; he kicks at the door, certain he will break it down. He breaks the lock, but a heavy bureau still blocks the door. "Please, just talk to me. Please John. For God's sake you will destroy me."

Inside he hears laughter. "Been there for three years. Longer than I knew you, Just get out so I can finish this job. It is too much, Just leave me to it and disappear. Again."

Sherlock heaves with all his might and the obstacle budges enough that he can just squeeze through.

"Stop, or I finish it this second. "

Sherlock's heart flutters as he observes. The needle is in his arm. John lies on the bed with a small smile and calm face. Sherlock is losing control, his eyes are blurring, "No. No." he whispers hoarsely.

"You have five minutes. Don't come any closer. Say what you need to. Trust me, you can't undo this, so speak carefully. I have very little left, Sherlock. I can't see a way to survive you caring so damned little for me, I just don't have any more to give you."

"Please don't say that John. I will do anything. Anything you want if you will just not do this."

"Mycroft knew this whole time. You trusted him? But that means you have known this whole time what it did to me and you didn't … you couldn't be bothered."

"It wasn't trust, it was safety. I wanted to come back a year ago, but you were moving on. You were happy? I don't understand. Has something happened to your wife? You were happy. I saw you."

"Happy? Do I look happy? I am in some ways I don't have to keep doing this. I thought I was going to you. Here, make fun of me and have a good laugh. I wished to see you. I now can't even look forward to it. I offered my soul for a fucking hour with you and nothing came to claim it."

"I do. I claim it."

"For what? I made you a hero. Sung of my angel, and you were never one of them. How could you?"

"I don't know how to respond that doesn't guarantee you will not push that plunger in anger. I will lie at this moment. I will say anything, I would do…" Sherlock's eyes meet john's again.

Sherlock holds his arms out and flicks his wrist. "The rules are for lesser souls, John." Sherlock says with a small smile. In his hand is his gun. John's eyes widen as Sherlock puts it to his head and closes his eyes.

"Oh for fucks sake, Sherlock. You're rusty. I can win. I will be dead long before you finish with all your silly threats. See you in hell."

"Notice the angle. I won't die for hours. Will you still save me, John? " Sherlock closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, as his finger tightens on the trigger.

John watches for a split second in horror as the firing mechanism begins engaging. He leaps from the bed and the gun fires as they tumble. John looks down at Sherlock's peaceful unmoving face and blood is soaking the side of his head. He checks his pulse and begins feeling for the wound, as a whimpering escapes with each breath.

"No. No no. you bastard no." John has found the source of the bleeding but not the entrance wound. He's in terror that his attempt to stop Sherlock may have changed the angle, made the threat lethal after all. "Please. I love you. God that's all I wanted you to say. You idiot, I just…"

Sherlock's eyes open and he grins. "You could have just said that, John. You didn't have to make me shoot myself just to say it. I never stopped loving you for a minute. How could you doubt that part? I didn't. I knew you'd save me."

John looks at him and he stops searching Sherlock's blood soaked curls. "Why are you here? Why now?'

"I was always here, you just couldn't see. I had to save you this time. Nobody else was close enough. I only thought you spotted me. But then I knew what you really meant and there was no choice."

"No choice. This is getting worse by the second."

"Thus, I dare to bleed from the head, and this hurts, may I add, rather than try to make you believe, whist I am under the duress of fear. Are you still a doctor or do you enjoy my suffering in some long displaced retribution exercise?"

John sighs and hangs his head for a moment. "Welcome back."

"Finding it true so quickly?"

"What?"

"Are you wishing you had been more careful what you wished for? The memory of me you created in your literary endeavors, not living down to the messy reality of me?"

John looks around. "Did you hear that?"

"There was no unidentifiable sound, John."

John stands up and offers his hand to Sherlock, to help him up as he mumbles. "Funny, could have sworn someone just shouted the word Bingo."

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><p>Please review, would love to hear from you!<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

4th Perdition.

The Perditions of John

4th Perdition

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
><strong>Realm<strong>: _Sherlock_  
><strong>Story Title<strong>: The 4th Perdition of John  
><strong>Summary<strong>:_ Explanations , consternation , alliteration, remuneration: The Game begins. (This chapter is short, but this is just where I saw it end.)_  
><strong>CharacterRelationships**: John/Sherlock

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><p>John fussed singularly without interruption over Sherlock's head wound. Sherlock had protested the shaving, but had stoically silenced himself after John narrowed his eyes and dared him to continue. "Then we will call for an ambulance and the bobby brigade and I will identify you as an intruder and as they drag your unbearable carcass off, I will declare that I have never laid eyes on you. While you and your beloved brother are occupied sorting out those humorous details I swear on my soul you will never hear a whisper of me again. I will vanish in such a manner that you and Mycroft will discover something amazing. You will always wonder and yet I will show you the impossible, this time. Now shut up, unless you would like to begin delighting me with your, no doubt brilliant, plan of destroying your only friend for your sick version of entertainment."<p>

Sherlock has not winced as John attended to him. "You have every right to be angry with me," he'd ventured softly.

John had said nothing, but began precisely putting his supplies away.

"You still intend to forgive me." Sherlock said with a secretive flash of his eyes and a curl at the corner of his lips.

John watches the movements, knowing he'd once found them utterly charming. This moment it just irritated him."Oh, yes. I forgot what a pleasure your arrogance provided in radiating sphinctal cramps. What makes you think I will ever forgive you?"

Sherlock reaches out slowly and gently wraps his cool fingers around John's wrist. He lets one of his pale elegant fingers slide across the face of John's watch. "You still wear this token of sentiment. Of my ridiculous inability to allow you to forget me when it would have been the logical and kindest course of action."

John doesn't pull away from Sherlock. He puts the puzzle together so easily. "It never belonged to your father, did it?"

Sherlock shook his head, face perfectly smooth of emotion and yet his eyes changed from cool slate to rain-slick sage as he rumbled in his deep purr, "How you must hate me, my dear John Watson."

John takes in a deep calming breath as his eyes roll up into his head leaving only soulless white visible for a split second. "Tea?" he croaks as he quietly leaves the bathroom.

Sherlock follows and stands uncomfortably between kitchen and parlor in his stiff mannequin stance of observance. Sherlock was taking in data. John always thought of it as if Sherlock was consuming his surroundings. He is like a tornado of mind simply sucking up everything in its path. He should have expected destruction, having stood in the storm's path in awe of its beauty. John Watson knew the squall was a heartless eater of obstacles, yet he had fooled himself into thinking the tempest noticed him.

"So, seriously Sherlock, to what miracle of design do I owe the honor of your company? You haven't reappeared at this moment simply by chance. It can't be some case of sentiment or misplaced foreknowledge of your intent to reveal yourself in the nick of time? You would have never left me like that in the first place if you honestly had any trickles of concern for my obliteration. You must have only come, out of some guilty whim that my demise would render me of no use to whatever sudden need you have retained for my bumbling valueless company. Do enlighten me, my good man? How may your dog serve you this time?"

"Your bitterness is annoying. Please, exhaust your need for affront quickly; I will make every effort to accept it without taking it in a subjective intention. It is quite appropriate for you to exacerbate the tension between us and test that I won't lash out at you for whatever pain I have instigated. " Sherlock turns and flops into his chair, coat pulled tight and face set in his leaden mask of fury.

John says no more, but finishes his tasks and carefully places Sherlock's tea on the table. He sits down quietly and coolly observes Sherlock over his mug as he sips the scalding hot tea.

Sherlock finally gives in with a sigh and asks softly as if still far away, "May I take your silence as invitation to offer my rational process of thought, that you might understand the scope of the burdens I have carried and the sorrows I have endured at your absence? I take full responsibility, but it has not been your exclusive heart at risk of agony. "

"By all means."

"I do know. I do recognize what I put you through."

"Interesting. Warning. Do not assume that you know the thing you yourself have created. Because those in the last stages of the journey you have planned with such precision are not as predictable as the faithful pet you abandoned to the forest. I am thankful that you are whole. Don't doubt that for one second. It gives me my sanity back to know I simply was a pawn in your games and not important enough to have affected your demise. But, there are wounds and scars. A whistle and a demand to heel will no longer warrant compliance."

Sherlock wilts. His head slumps backward to rest on the back of the chair. "Oh. John. What have I done to you? Please, I can't…I have so much to say. I have changed too, but I don't think I can see you like this and maintain my…" Sherlock stops speaking and seems to have blanked out.

John stares into his cup, heart pumping and stomach knotting. He can't let this cold man back in. He only wants to put his head in his lap and wail of his undying, uncontrollable, unfettered love. He must not give in to this. The man is like a drug.

It is the shivering that draws his eye. Sherlock is having some sort of spasm. John begins assessing at once then stops rattling through strings of ailments and side effects of cranial splinters from the impact of a bullet skittering off an idiots skull when he realizes what has really occurred. In anyone else, crying would be easily recognized. But, it isn't on the list of possibility when the symptoms involve Sherlock Holmes. John had been too far away and too shocked to really observe him the single time he'd shed a tear, so it is understandable that this odd new ability Sherlock is performing would need such hard scrutiny before allowing John's mind to connect it to something so average.

He freezes in a half stance, eyes wide and confidence shattering at this vision before him. He's made an angel cry. John Watson is certain he must be growing fangs and horns, because to have forced tears of sorrow from Sherlock, would take the power of a monster.

"Sherlock? Oh God, Sherlock. How can you be here? How can I say any of it now?"

"Please, please. My John. Just for a moment. Forgive me just for a moment, won't you?' he holds his arms out, fingers splayed exactly like that day the whole world ended. How many times had he dreamed of that distance closing and here it was, before him. What right did he have to test fate by caring why or how or by what power this gift had arrived?

Sherlock was here, and real and reaching out to him, begging for him to save him and John was too insanely aware of the miracle, in that moment, to question the means. John stepped off the ledge of right and justified anger and folded himself onto Sherlock's lap and buried his face in his neck, finally taking in the first breath of life in three years. The distant faint scent of rapture he'd gone to such lengths to preserve and savor in tiny gulps like a stingy alcoholic filled his pours with ecstasy and he sighed as the arms he'd needed for so long finally encircled him gluing the broken pieces and sealing them in warmth.

Sherlock was home from heaven and hell.

John had returned from Perdition.

Hours spent in perfect quiet and glistening joyful tears. Moments of near dreams and languid submission to the grateful nearness of the other.

Finally, John had to stir. He kissed Sherlock's forehead and blushed, "I need to visit the loo." He washed his hands and brushed his teeth, embarrassed that he hoped to not end the physical contact with Sherlock on a semi-platonic level. He wanted more.

Sherlock stood holding his violin, plunking strings and adjusting things, obviously displeased at the state of his beloved instrument.

"I would have kept it better, if I'd had some clue what to do. I just couldn't pack it away. I wanted to imagine it was waiting for you."

"And so it was."

John cleared his throat. "I found them. The music." He lifted the cushion and handed them to Sherlock, noting he noticed at once the smudges by the way his brow furrowed and his face darkened. "I know they aren't done, but, could you? What's there? I thought I would never hear them. If I haven't mucked them up too much…"

Sherlock looked down at him with that smirk he had always saved for just John. "John. I don't need them. They are not partial melodies any longer. And those are just the first three. There are now five more. You were on my mind constantly. You have your own palace in my mind, my John. It was not sentiment. It was my survival." Without another word, the violin snapped under his chin and John melted into his chair as love filled the room. It swirled on the restless waves of sonnet and the violin cried in joy for brave Sherlock and his faithful John.

Perdition is sometimes a deceptive place.

* * *

><p>I thank you all for your story alerts and favorite marking, however if you HAVE seen this series, I would adore hearing any feedback you may have. Thank you all for taking the time to read and if you find something that you liked or disliked, please comment.<p> 


	5. Chapter 5

5th Perdition.

The Perditions of John

5th Perdition

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
><strong>Realm<strong>: _Sherlock_  
><strong>Story Title<strong>: The 5th Perdition of John  
><strong>Summary<strong>:_ 'It's all a game, John, and I always play to win."_  
><strong>CharacterRelationships**: John/Sherlock

* * *

><p>The music stopped and Sherlock sat staring into space. John had the urge to touch him; again, just to be sure he was there.<p>

"Your tea has gone cold. Would you like it to be warmed?" John asks at last to break the silence.

"My tea is always cold. I am like it. Cold, unwanted, without the warmth to give someone. I almost didn't answer you. I missed something about you John. Maybe I believed incorrectly."

"A lot of subjects there. I never thought of you as cold. But, three years, thinking I did that to you. Thinking the only thing I could do for you was make you live forever, and knowing that is the only reason, I'm here. And it only served to make me a joke between you and Mycroft? Well, that does shine some light on where we were, as opposed to where I thought we might have been."

"And where did you think we were?"

"Not sure it matters, so you won't have to give me the married to your work speech." John stands and sweeps up both cups. He stands in the kitchen, leaning on the counter, holding himself trying not to cry out loud. He can't cry again, he won't stop now if he does. He gets himself under control by the time he enters the living room again and sets a hot mug before Sherlock. He goes to the mantle and stares in the eye of the skull and without thinking ruffles his nonexistent hair.

"Do you hate me?" comes the baritone voice from behind.

"You're the one with the magic tricks, figure it out." John braces himself and lifts his tea to his throbbing eyes.

"Did you suspect I was near? Is that why you tried to kill yourself?"

"No. Obvious, as you used to say."

"Then walk me through it, because I am at a loss. You have managed all this time. What occurred today that made this the moment you picked to stop existing?"

"Maybe I was just bored. Sherlock? Maybe it was just a good day for it." John turned and tilted his head with a soft smile, the calm soldier.

"Bored? You have three cases open on the desk. You have enough money to do anything you please. You have two best sellers in New York. You have purchased this building. You have a woman. How are you bored?"

John smirks and sips his tea. "I have nothing. Nothing, Sherlock."

"You have me."

"You? I guess you missed the bit about you were dead. It was in all the papers."

"Ahhh. And I was a factor? It still doesn't explain that on this day, you decided that it would be your last."

"No. Not just this day. Every single one of them. Every day. All of them. This one just happened to win. I have spent more than a thousand days right here. More days then I knew you. It stopped being worth it after about three. You can't tell me you didn't know, not if Mycroft was giving you updates. Do you know how it feels that I have thought of nothing but finding you and you would rather I do this then trust me? You said you could have come back a year ago, but you didn't even ease my burden then. Mary left me, because she knew. I let her go, because I cared enough not to make her watch."

"I thought you were moving on. I wanted you to be happy. I was at your wedding. Knowing I was alive served no purpose. I would have tried to, persuade you to not…take your chance at all the happiness you deserved. You would have hated me for that more."

"You would have seen me better if you had found my body. Here, let's pretend. Let this pen represent the needle. You have just found me. I have been dead for three hours, look around. Tell me what you see." John let himself down onto the chair and aimed the pen toward his arm and slowly closed his eyes and slumped sideways.

"John. I don't like this game. Please stop."

'Play it now, or later." John says in his calm soft way. "Out loud please."

Sherlock sits for a moment, waiting for John to understand that he is not at all amused. With a typically petulant sigh, that John has to work not to smile about, Sherlock stands over him. He leans in and sniffs. "You…uhem, the victim, is severely underweight, he may have overdosed, but he didn't. He is not in the condition of a junkie, he has showered, groomed himself, dressed carefully, formally even, and is smirking yet the crap telly is off so he decided to kill himself despite how successful he is. The room has also been cleaned which indicates this was not a random moment of crisis, he planned this action. There is no accumulated mail; he was not behind or in financial crisis. Therefore his action is motivated by some other situation. He is in a chair, not his bed, which probably indicates he wanted his last vision to be of something that mattered to him. He would have been looking at… a chair facing him, and the violin propped beside it. He doesn't play the violin, because his fingertips are soft, so it mattered that he see it for another reason. It belonged to his flat-mate. He wears no jewelry of any kind, though his ring finger has a pale line indicating this is a recent occurrence. There are no pictures of his wife, nor does he have one on his person. That says she was not the instigator of his demise."

Sherlock pulled out his spy glass. And went over John in silence. "He has worked out extensively, perhaps to excess considering the scent of menthol based cream permeating his right leg in the knee area and bruising to his ankle of the same limb. He is vitamin deficient indicated by the dry skin and sallow complexion. He has recently had his hair colored and styled, possibly as a precursor to this event. His watch is expensive and not something he would have bought for himself, he died with his shoes on and neatly tied, meaning he was most perfunctory in wrapping up details. His will is on the mantle, labeled. His shirt was ironed by him, but his trousers were professionally cleaned. The smell of naphtha is strong, so he just picked them up. There are no doubt a second set of clothes laid out for his burial, ah yes hanging just over there. This wasn't done on the spur of the moment, but long planed."

John feels the eyes bore into him. He has one thing left to find. He feels Sherlock reach into his left pocket.

" He has a note in his left pocket. It is on yellow linen paper, folded precisely in the origami shape of the crane. The shape means loyalty and honor but the color means freedom. The ink is crimson, perhaps for his school teacher, or perhaps to represent love. And it says,…Oh God." Sherlock sits down and stops speaking.

"That's not what it said," the corpse indicates. "Out loud please."

"My darling. I am not leaving anything, just going to follow you as always. You will live forever. My purpose is complete. I am honored to have called you friend and nothing will ever match those short moments. I hope you can forgive me for calling you a machine. You were always the most human of the two of us. I am sure that what I lost when you ended your journey with me was the most important thing I ever had. Genius needs an audience is what you told me, so I am taking my place. I am happy for the first time in an endless eternity without you. I don't know how you missed that I fell in love with you and I just hope you knew. The only thing that matters is a chance to tell you. I don't want anything else, but for you to know that. I expected miracles of you. But I know they don't really exist, so I will make one. I know that they did exist once. We found each other. Maybe we can do it just one more time and whatever we are after, we will find each other again. You made my heart stop. Every beat since has been only in my mind. "

John opened his eyes. "I think that explains where I thought we were. Don't worry though Sherlock, just delete it. It wasn't important."

"John."

"I know. It's all fine. I mean all of it, it's fine. Now, where are you planning to stay? You're welcome here. I need to sleep. I haven't done that in a while and now that you're alive, maybe I can. The thing is I have taken over your room. The sheets are clean upstairs, if you want to, or the couch. Sorry about that, but…"

"John, please."

"Just don't ok? Don't pretend you feel sorry for me." John closed the door and let out several breaths. He kicked off his shoes and collapsed on the bed.

Sherlock didn't wait long. He opened the door and walked to the end of the bed. "I thought you might be interested. I love you more than I ever loved anyone. Even more than me. I didn't stop. I love you. I always will. I will come back in any capacity you will have me. I can't be without you. I will only leave if you tell me it is my only way to make you happy."

John feels the end of the bed sag, but he doesn't move. Sherlock leans over and touches Johns shoulder. His hands are cold. He must be nervous.

Sherlock whispers, " I did trust you. I know what you think, but it was only to protect you at first and then I thought it would be kinder to just let you go on. I didn't want to mess up what I thought you had and God, I was half insane with grief that I had lost you."

John turns and gets up on his elbow; he glances at Sherlock then looks away. He focuses on Sherlock's hand and closes his own on his larger pale fingers.

"My enemy is finally dead and I came home to find out you were getting married in two months. I debated, but the facts seemed so clear. You were finding a future. Mycroft told me I needed to decide who I thought was the most important. He pointed out that, you were perhaps a bit lost without me but I was a blip really. You were essentially heterosexual and what chance did I have to honorably provide you with anything other than pain. I justly believed Jim had won after all. He burned the heart right out of me. He took you away from me. I left the ceremony and I was childish as always. I made messes for Mycroft to clean up. I was the mess actually. There is some missing time. Then I threw myself into some of my brother's covert enterprises and I arrived in London about sixty two hours ago. Mycroft said things may be not in the best place with you, that maybe I should keep an eye on you for a bit. I am working here right now. I think you would find it a most stimulating case. Mycroft needs us. He admitted we were much better as a team. He is quite fond of you. Your blog concerned him and it was decided that I would wait and see what your travel plans were to be. If they were some sort of ruse, I would take appropriate action. I knew you were staying here, but he didn't tell me why."

"I kept my affairs as private as possible. We haven't told many people. Waiting until it all finalizes. I let her down. It was me, not her. "

"Was it horrible? Did she break your heart?"

"No idiot. It was long gone. She tried to keep me satisfied with things to look forward to, but I kept getting lost in the past and I wouldn't have left her, but it was unfortunately a relief. It freed me up. For this, tonight."

"But you did love her?"

"I love her very much. I just, loved a dead man more and she really caught on once we were married. I evidently dreamed in embarrassing detail. Out loud."

"Interesting." Sherlock looks at John with those intense ethereal eyes of his looking amber in the moonlight. "And were any of your dreams about me happy, my John?"

"Some. Many were of you always dying, but even the good ones simply made the nightmare a daymare, when I woke and you were still dead."

"I am ashamed that I put you through any ache that led to what I almost didn't stop."

John sighed. "So what now? Where do we land. How do we fix it?"

"I was leaning toward a sexual encounter."

John laughs and then clears his throat. "I have never had sex with a man. I may be horrible at it."

"Well, I have never had sex with anyone, so I won't know. I assume you understand the basics? You are a physician of amazing caliber. I imagine that we are quite capable of figuring it out." Sherlock reasons then smiles that secret half smile John had seen only a few times.

"How about we start with a kiss and see how we feel then."

"I almost kissed you long ago. I know precisely how I feel about the rest. I want to see your face in joy, it has been sad for far too long."

"So, you understand. We have a lot of talking to do yet."

"Yes. But for now. Shut up, John." Sherlock winked.

John touched Sherlock's face as if he'd found some precious delicate relic then brought his lips within breath. He whispered, "I do love you. I don't know why, but not telling you... that was the worst thing."

John kissed him. He was real, here and his body responded with insane desire after just moments of contact. He unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt and was in the middle of pure worship when he suddenly put his head on Sherlock's chest and lost all ability to do more than sob.

Sherlock held him for a while before trying to make John laugh. "I think you are doing it wrong. I have extensively perused internet porn and this is not one of the integral steps toward orgasm."

John sucked in his breath then chuckled." There were autopsy photos. It was the last time I saw your bare chest. It ripped me apart. I love you."

"Molly is very good with photo editing. You don't want to know how she learned to be so competent."

"Shit. Who else knows?" John looked angry again.

"The one who matters the most knows now. Details John. Please, I need you." Sherlock pulled Johns head to his own and the kiss is salty and Sherlock is lost in the taste of John. John's nose is bright red and his eyes are puffy and bloodshot against the tiny blue rims of his gentle eyes. Sherlock has never seen anyone so beautiful.

They slowly found all the new sensations of each other so inviting and enticing that there was barely a beginning before they both shuddered and moaned unable to hold out for more than their hands upon each other. The pleasure was unbalancing and both grinned at the fact that neither could be called competent or much more than fumbling virgins.

Sherlock lay on John's broad chest, curled like a lanky cat around him, listening attentively to his racing heart. "I was under the impression that that required a great deal more effort. I have always required at least twenty minutes to bring myself to ejaculation."

"I have to admit, I heard you do that rumble thing and there was no stopping me. I imagine it will become less rapid as we grow accustomed to each other."

"Is it so when you are with females?"

John blushed. "Well, yes honestly. I have always rather prided myself on my ability to control myself. I usually take a much longer time to build up into the required state of arousal to achieve release. It has never occurred with, so little direct firm stimulation."

"I am not displeased that you were not afraid and that you found this experience less controlled. Perhaps you are more stimulated by men than you ever admitted."

"No. It has to do with it being you I think. I sort of had an experiment, while married. I was in a pub and met a man. I was curious, because of the dreams I had been having about you. I had a mind that was both open and very drunk, but found him, I don't know. It was ugly and I apologized and couldn't escape his clutches fast enough."

"Was he beautiful?" Sherlock says, voice trembling slightly with jealousy.

"He was not ugly. My age, blond. A German fellow, funny and cheerful. I thought it would be more exciting, but I knew after ten minutes of snogging this was a terrible mistake. He thought I had an injury that had affected me. He wasn't offended. Quite polite actually."

"What gave him the impression that you were impotent?"

John grinned and shrugged. "I did. It was all I could think of and he was unaware that I could rattle off the symptoms because of my profession. He recommended a doctor in Berlin, gave me his card even. He patted my head and kissed me on the forehead, and told me I had hope. He was so understanding it made me feel terrible for lying to him, but it proved I wasn't just playing for the wrong team."

"And what value was that information to you?"

John ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "It meant that I was not staging a marriage to hide my inability to be seen as in love with a man. It meant it was not my thing to begin with and it showed me that only you crossed that boundary for me. I was not disappointed with that answer, but I needed to know."

"So I am an enigma even in your heart?"

"Yes. You are."

"I was home once and thought you were…seeing Lestrade."

"No. He has been there for me though. He made a drunken pass at me one night."

"Really? I may be charged for murder after all." Sherlock said, raising one eyebrow.

John leaned back and looked at Sherlock in amused shock. "I never would have expected you to be such a jealous man, Sherlock. Never."

"The clues were all there from the beginning. Elementary, my dear Dr. Watson. Problem?" Sherlock's face took on the look of a pleased Cheshire cat.

"In some ways it isn't. I am not going to play games. You can't go killing every person who looks at me twice."

"It's all a game, John, and I always play to win."

Johns head tilted as he studied Sherlock. "I see. What happens when you win, Sherlock? You always get bored then. You will be off seeking your next challenge. Your next opponent."

"And you will be by my side. You are my John now. We should sleep for a while. We have work to do tomorrow. My target will be meeting with Mycroft's predecessor tomorrow. We must be there by noon, to set up our surveillance. We have to be very careful, John. These are not simple minded killers. When they kill, it is either never mentioned or the entire world stands up and takes notice."

"That's interesting. And this meeting is important to you?"

"Obviously. I wouldn't be here if it weren't. I have missed my assistant, my colleague, my best friend. I am so glad this brought us together. Like old times, eh John? The game is on and all is well." Sherlock sighed with contentment as John stared at the ceiling.

Just like old times. Like when you faked your death. Oh Sherlock, I am such a fool. You will get bored and I will lose you. You think just because we have given in to need, all is forgiven. John didn't sleep at all. He watched the sun rise, turning Sherlock's skin a golden-orange. He watched him breath, then quietly he slipped out of bed.

Sherlock awoke and stretched. His eyes popped open and he smiled at all his familiar things in their familiar places. He listened for the sound of John in the kitchen. The flat was silent. Sherlock frowned. He sat up and called to John. There was no answer. He must have gone to get pastries. Sherlock took a shower and dressed himself in some of his dusty cloths still hanging in his closet as if he were never away.

He entered the living room, searching for a note from John. He spied it at once and smiled at the familiar sloppy printing. The S in his name was larger, more elegant and the letters were slightly rounded. The K was entirely too large, meaning John was a man motivated by love but was first a man who had an imaginative mind and was full of surprises. Sherlock grinned and opened the note.

His smile faltered, then his face fell and he had to sit down to keep from falling. This couldn't be. Why? Sherlock couldn't make out the words swimming and blurring before him. It was a mistake, he had to have read this wrong.

_Dear Sherlock, _

_The game begins. Do you always play to win? You catch them all. Catch me._

_I will cherish last night, but I got my miracle. I fear it was too late for me and I fear more that it is but the start of another failure. I can't do it again. I can't watch it become clear when the clues are so glaringly obvious. You didn't come back to me. It was just convenient. I know as soon as I become inconvenient, you will throw me away again._

_ I guess it's a hard pill to swallow, knowing my chances are not the best. For three years I have focused on one thing. I wanted you, but it doesn't cure me. I could pretend for a while and cling to you with greed, but I know that yesterday was the best day of my life and I won't ever see it spoiled by reality. _

_Forgive me for being so selfish, but this close to the end of my sanity, I can still beat you, my darling one._

_I forgive you for not trusting me. I forgive you for playing dead. It is harder to know you didn't believe in me or need me enough. I accept it. Can you prove me wrong? _

_Choose now. I think you know the stakes, if they matter._

_One day for each year. No second chances. You fell and that's as good a time as any._

_Find me and we will see if it is as fun when you discover, the one you can't beat is the one you didn't notice. Did you find the first clue my love? They will get harder._

_The best to you either way you play. Don't cheat or the game ends early. Don't bother with my sister or the media. That is cheating. I know you will contact Mycroft, but I assure you, he won't be able to help you._

_Am I being cruel? Maybe, but I love you and I do hope you win. If you don't, I understand and I am sure you will see that I never meant to bore you._

_Goodbye Sherlock. _

"No. No John. Please? Oh no." Sherlock leaned forward his face crumpled in pain. A clue? There was no clue. How do I Start? Where do I start?

* * *

><p>Yes the clue is obvious but John took into account a bit of emotional clog in the mind palace. Please review?<p>

Oh and to explain the why now? John hopes that Sherlock will pick him and win the game. If he doesn't, well 3 years in the mindset I have shown John to be in, it is not always possible to switch gears once you have the lorry in a downgrade. He is still processing and he is testing if Sherlock will even bother.


	6. Chapter 6

6th Perdition.

The Perditions of John

6th Perdition

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
><strong>Realm<strong>: _Sherlock_  
><strong>Story Title<strong>: The 6th Perdition of John  
><strong>Summary<strong>:_ Who is the man left behind? Sherlock makes some surprising discoveries._  
><strong>CharacterRelationships**: John/Sherlock

* * *

><p>[John. This is not going to work. I will simply have Mycroft track you. The clue is utterly simple. Please stop, and talk to me instead. SH]<p>

[You didn't bother to go. Yes, count on Mycroft. I did. JW]

[You know I have plans for the day. Why are you doing this? Just be mad at me in person. SH]

[sorry. Busy. JW]

[This isn't necessary. We should be working this out, not playing hide and seek. SH]

[Suit yourself. Time marches on. JW]

[What do you mean by that? Stop being droll and just come speak with me. SH]

[Inconvenient. JW]

[Fine. What will I find at the school? SH]

[The next clue. JW]

[Great. I love scavenger hunts. Stop this now. I am sorry. I worship the ground you walk on. Now please. SH]

[Tell Mycroft, he never dug deep enough. You should always know your opponent. JW]

Sherlock sent several more texts, but John was being a child and ignoring him. He called Mycroft.

"I trust your reunion has at last taken place?" His brother says without a hello.

"Mycroft. It didn't go well."

"And this is unexpected how?"

"He's run off. He said to tell you that you didn't dig deep enough. Look, he's not thinking clearly. You were right and I interrupted him, but he's still going to do it."

"Pray tell, your smiling face failed to cheer him?" Mycroft says in his I-know-everything way.

"Just find him and pick him up. Text me when your people have him. I need to get going. I heard a car outside."

"As you wish. Do be careful. I will speak to you soon."

Sherlock didn't bother with saying goodbye. Mycroft's former boss just appeared far below, looking older, but still as grand as a peacock. His attention turned toward his purpose for coming to London.

Four hours later, Sherlock appeared at Mycroft's desk, smirking. "This should accomplish more than you hoped. They were both arrogant and spoke quite freely. Now where is he? I have yelling to pretend to listen to and I want to get it over as quickly as possible." Sherlock says rolling his neck and rubbing his left shoulder.

"It always acts up when you are under strain. You need surgery."

"I know. Soon. Right now I just want to see John. Mad or not, I don't even care. I just want to sit and look at him. I have missed him."

"I don't know how to say this, Sherlock, but he isn't here."

Sherlock's eyes lock on Mycroft and his heart sinks at the genuine shadows of concern he sees there. "Why isn't he?"

"Because we spent most of the day on a goose chase. This was found at the location you described." Mycroft, slides a piece of paper forward.

_Really, this is the place you picked? I was thinking a little pinker. As in the first place you abandoned me. You better hurry. People to save and places to go, my love._

"And his phone? It gave you his location?"

"I have that too. It was serenading your headstone with some horrid American song about emotionally damaged canines. He was, however, not in its company."

Sherlock flicked to the last song played.

You ain't nothing but a hound dawg…crying all the time…but you ain't never caught a rabbit and you ain't no friend of mine…"

"Elvis. He who is still sighted regularly, though dead." Sherlock smiles and shakes his head.

"There is more. We should have a conversation, Sherlock. About, your John."

"Isn't that what we're doing?"

Mycroft sighed. He reached in his drawer and pulled out a folder. " This is the tip of the iceberg. Some was faxed to me with encryption. High security, encryption. It seems our friendly little doctor has more to him then we deduced. We were blinded by his down home demeanor and his fascination with you. I am not certain I will allow you to seek him out. Perhaps it would be better to lose just this one game."

Sherlock had barely begun to read when Mycroft's thoughts interrupted. Sherlock glanced at his brother and in an annoyed tone demanded, "What do you mean? I explained his intention."

"That is precisely why I conclude that you should not play. This isn't all. I can't even get my hands on some of his records."

Sherlock frowns and plops down in the chair never taking his eyes off the papers he's reading. "Losing your touch, Mycroft?"

Mycroft's brows furrow and he leans back in his chair before answering, "Not, at all. These alone are unattainable for anyone else. But it seems there were other governments with whom he performed, shall we say, medical functions, with whom I do not have established rapport on this level. Dr. John Watson, may have been overqualified to be your assistant. He is more than qualified to be mine."

Sherlock wanted to laugh, but it was all very black and white. "obvious," he murmures. Sherlock absorbed the information, admittedly surprised at exactly how deep John was. "But he was injured. Is that why they sent him home? They let him walk away?"

"Quite common actually. But, they do keep a close eye on them. If they become a loose cannon, they are fired in perpetuity. We both were not paying attention. We both missed all the notable exceptions to his mild humble story."

"My John was a bad ass."

"Your John is the hobbit version of James Bond, The Red Baron, and Dr. Jeckyll all rolled into one."

"Kind of a Frankenstein's monster?"

Mycroft smiled, "Yes, very like you indeed."

"I still hate it when you call me that, Bugger-wad."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Never the less, these papers do change some things. You must understand, the long term stability of these…type of soldier, is marginal at best. I would have never advised you involve yourself with this person, had I any idea."

"I don't care about that," Sherlock says smiling slightly and shrugging into his great chunky belStaff and arranging his scarf on the way out the door.

"Sherlock. I am not finished. Where do you think you are going?" He says standing and coming round the desk.

"I am going to beat my lover, crush his tender little ego, save his life and probably never let him out of my sight again. In the meantime, you are going to keep your little beady eyes on all the fabulous toys you have amassed and call me at once when you spot him."

"Sherlock, I forbid you from confronting him."

"Do you? Well that simply makes it more fun, now if you would like to arrest that wicked little man who trained you, I suggest you get on the ball, he's to be liquidated in approximately two hours, once he delivers the shoe size of the Queen mum and the golf score of a certain Mycroft Holmes to the bad guy you have had me babysitting for a month. That part isn't on the tape, but there are three sentences full of incredible state darkness, you might want to keep under wraps." Sherlock turns to leave again but stops, facing away from his brother as he says the last part, " Find him, if humanly possible. I won't be a great deal of value to you if …this game is lost."

Mycroft sighs and is resolved that he has never had any way to control Sherlock and his whims. "I will do what I can, but the rules have changed. I will not endanger good men to bring about the return of your pet soldier gone a bit rabid."

"Ah. Of course, you save me for such." Sherlock smirks slightly as he walks at his quick thinking pace. So my dear John, you think you can out play me. Well, I always warned you not to make heros, but this time I assure you that you will not be in the least, disappointed.

Sherlock hailed a cab, and gave the address to the building that had started it all. He smiled, that John was still offended after five years that he had snuck off to find the woman's case forgetting he'd had a companion. He had gotten better after all and Mycroft had given him a ride back to 221B. Sherlock thought back to that night, how he'd been so close to taking the damned pill. John had killed for him, to save him. He could have been charged. Of course he would have paid for the finest legal team in all of London, but courts could be so fickle.

Sherlock stood on the street looking up at the building. It looked nothing like it had that night long ago. It had been transformed. It was also occupied, which would complicate things. Sherlock was certain that john would leave his clue in the place the body had been. He ran the stairs and knocked on the door. He inquired of a short woman, probably a retired teacher from her propensity toward apple fashion, whether something had been inadvertently delivered to her by mistake. He made pleasant chatter as he perused her now carpeted and comfortably bright accommodations.

He wondered if it would bother her to know a woman had died within this space and if the carpet had been laid over the last message. Rache. He honestly expected to find johns note sitting in plain sight on the floor, after all he was seeking revenge by punishing Sherlock for having sacrificed himself and his entire life, just to keep him alive.

He thanked the woman profusely and slowly stumped down the stairs. So what did john do with the clue? He looked around as he stepped down the stairs; it had to be here somewhere. He had to be missing something. What had happened that night?

He'd been embarrassed by Donovan and he'd made remarks about her and Anderson. He'd ask for the victim's case. And he'd forgotten John.

Come if it is convenient, he'd texted. Sherlock looked up and down the street. John must have been so angry as he stood here alone, having made the acquaintance with an insane person, yet he came anyway. Sherlock smiled and he trotted up the street. The phone booth. Mycroft had rung phones watching him on security cameras. Sherlock looked around as he entered and grinned at the flaming pink envelope tucked between the phone and the wall. He wedged it out and was surprised that it was two small pages.

The first page said,

_Dear Sherlock, well that took a bit of time. Good thing you don't sleep. You made me find a ride home that night. He should have picked up my phone by now. Did you look, or are you just trying to jump ahead and see if this is going to be a walk down memory lane? The end is not at St. Bart's. That would make it true that I am as stupid as you think I am. You really should try to hurry, you see I spent a certain number of days in mourning. They are significant._

The second page said,

_I will speed you along a bit, beings you probably didn't count them the way I did. 1111. That is an interesting number. Should we say a clue per day? No. How do you feel about numerology? 11+11 equals 22 equals 4 =? Do you have any? Nothing is bigger when you have none._

_11 is the master number – are we two masters balanced? Or are our hands tied?_

Sherlock growled. He whispered under his breath, "God, I hate riddles."

He was on his phone at once looking up all the lore on numbers.

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><p><strong>Thank you for your time and reviews. Can you solve the riddle of where he must go next?<strong>


	7. Chapter 7

**_6th Perdition, ring two._**

**_The Perditions of John_**

**_6th Perdition, ring two_**

**_Author_****_: Howlynn  
>Realm: Sherlock BBC<br>Story Title: The 6th Perdition of John in the second ring.  
>Summary: John plays with Sherlock's mind and heart.<br>Character/Relationships: John/Sherlock_**

I Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

><p>Sherlock took only a few moments to crack Johns riddle. It was not what he expected.<p>

**_11 is a master number – masonic lore - George Barnard, 11:11 is "the calling card for beings that are half angels and half humans" – nice John –four-four time - doorway between two worlds – forth dimension - In Numerology, "11" represents impractical idealism, visionary, refinement of ideals, intuition, revelation, artistic and inventive genius, avant-garde, androgynous, film, fame, refinement fulfilled when working with a practical partner. - first Great War, World War 1, ended on the 11th hour, of the 11th day, of the 11th month – Tolkien – a curious number – Apollo 11 -September 11th is the 254th day of the year: 2 + 5 + 4 = 11. - Genesis 11, men rebelled against God and built the tower of Babel._** -**_Symbol of the interior fight, the rebellion and the mislaying which results from it. But it also represents someone who comes out victorious of the tests with the acquired knowledge.-_** **_eleventh hour last moment of hope -eleven stations on the path of the cross – four elements – Fibonacci sequence – corrective wave of_****_Elliott Wave Principle -4 winds – 4 directions – four square – four score – four moon phases – time passing – Shi/She four is death in Chinese - 11:11 phenomenon -Uri stopped Big Ben at 11.11 AM, GMT April the 30th 1997_**

Sherlock looked toward the tower. He smiled. Time. _Do you have any time? Nothing is bigger when you have none. Big Time._

Sherlock headed that way, rubbing his head. He is walking across Westminster Bridge when he realized his throbbing head had grown to epic proportions and he vomited into the Thames. He was not looking forward to climbing the stairs to the tower bells where he expected to find his next clue. He kept going, light headed and miserable. The tourists were swarming and the smells of the heavy perfumes and the city in general were overwhelming in the cool air. He huddled his coat around him, intending to visit Mycroft while here when he was bumped into by several tourists not paying attention. He winced.

He was not functioning well. He decided, Mycroft could wait as he spied just the sort of fellow that Mycroft would despise him for recognizing. He approached the man and within ten minutes had followed him around a corner, securing a transaction away from Mycroft's nosy cameras. He reasoned that he must win so therefore he required all the tools within his disposal; a necessary adjustment of transport was in order.

He had of course found the clue. It was a little paper origami lotus flower. Sherlock unfolded it and read the simple words.

**_You and the designer of the tower have something in common don't you?_**

Sherlock sighed. Bedlam.

He hailed a cab and leaned deep in the seat, closing his eyes, he told the driver, "Bethlem Royal Hospital please."

He handed the driver enough to cover his fare and a tip then instructed him to wait. Sherlock indeed found yet another clue and deciphered quickly that he was to now go to yet another charming location from his past.

Sherlock made his first transport adjustment in the cab on the way. The rush of clarity and relief made him shiver.

John was proving that he'd managed to research Sherlock far beyond what a common person could know. He spent the day visiting scenes of his Uni days as well as places he had resided secretly while in the throes of his drug dependency. With a smile of irony, he made several more adjustments as the day drug on and the game became increasingly hard to play. Sherlock was impressed at some of the facts John had evidently gleaned about him from Mycroft's most confidential files.

John knew far more than Sherlock ever suspected his flat mate could have discovered. Why had he gathered this information? Sherlock felt more misery as the endless day progressed to evening. He had spent two-month's rent on cabs this day and nothing on nourishment due to the nausea. He texted John again, expecting no response but nevertheless knowing he was near the end of his ability to function.

[9:00 - Please John. I am impressed and woefully sorry. I have patiently followed your clues. Can we not just speak? SH]

[9:03 -are you there? SH]

[9:07 - Do you hate me this much? SH]

[9:08 - If you do, I understand. SH ]

[9: 12 - But do you not see, I gave up everything, for you? SH]

[9:23 - Please don't ignore. I swear the last three years were far worse than death for me. If I had known. If you hadn't cared? Would it have mattered that I bothered to stop them?]

[9:28 - If your point is to say that I underestimated you, I did. Point countered, I also overestimated you. I thought I knew your heart. I assumed you had no secret change of affection. I thought my feelings for you were unrequited at best and a source of discomfort and eventual separation to be inflicted upon me in the future, in truth. SH]

[9:29 - I thought if I asked you to go, it would lead to your realization that my feelings were outside any bounds you found acceptable. You would have deserted me when you discovered it and I would never have survived.]

[9:33 - We both failed to communicate some rather vital information that stood outside my decision making process. How was I to expect you to go tits up and gutted?]

[9:47 - I can't turn back the clock.]

[9:51 – I don't regret our moment of bliss. It was worth all of hell to have that one perfect, undeletable memory.]

[10:13 - I am losing my mind. He's won after all hasn't he? SH]

His vision is swimming and he is so tired as he stalked the banks of the Thames. He again tried to cure his situation though the tremors told him the battle with his body was nearing critical mass.

He had only gone a few yards, when he realized, he may have inadvertently murdered a dead man. He smirked at the irony of being so near Waterloo.

His respiration is failing to deliver enough oxygen to his brain and his heart rate went from accelerated to terminal. A realization that he has no clear memory of calculating his last dosage stops his continued lurching forward. He surprisingly felt a jolt of adrenaline and feels more clear and rational then he had for several hours. He switches off his torch as he withdraws his phone from his pocket and begins typing.

[10:41 - I cannot win. Forgive me. May have been a mistake to resort to random supplier. His product inferior or cut improperly but needs must. If convenient, please resuscitate. SH]

[10:42 -If inconvenient, please see that my Strat is donated to the Royal Academy and that a scholarship is set up per my instructions. SH]

[10:43 -Where are you? JW]

[10:44 – Sherlock. I am on my way. Where exactly are you and what are your symptoms? JW]

[10:51 -clue 36. Cardiac arrhythmia. Cantbreath..]

Sherlock was near the site that he and John had once investigated the murder of a night watchman. His mind didn't note he was falling until he is face down, the cold rocks feeling like buzzing unfriendly glass under his body. The stench of the muck from the river and the distant sounds of the city play vivid symphony to his blotching brain. He used the last of his will-power to type as he felt his own chest betray him with waves of pain. It was imprudent to inject an untested batch from a dodgy source.

He only did it to keep going because his body was betraying him with fatigue, lack of food and the crushing headache he could no longer ignore. The signs are familiar. He'd been here before. Having survived so many close calls, he couldn't help but find it disappointing that he'd ended up fulfilling Sally Donavan's often pronounced prediction. The body he happened to murder was his own, but there would be an investigation after all, beings it may be less than apparent how a dead man would again be found freshly dead a second time.

"Oh, John. I have quite made total pants of this, haven't I?" He feels the damp mud seeping into his cloths and rakes in a sigh of disgust at the thought of being found in such a boring and appalling condition.

He has certainly never been opposed to his last gasping breath not being achieved in comfort and luxury, but he honestly felt cheated that his end was not to be more magnificent and interesting. At the very least he had always hoped to go out in some unique fashion while in pursuit of some worthy opponent. This was intolerable, to expire covered in rammy gick felt like an insultingly average death. Mycroft would make such a face. That was at least a bit of a pisser. He smiled at the image while trying to curl onto his side and draw himself up into a more comfortable curl as the pain in his chest screamed

[10:52 – Hold on. Contacting Mycroft. Faster. Did you call an ambulance? JW]

[10:55 – Are you still with me? JW]

[10:56 – Sherlock, answer me.]

[10:57 – I expect you to respond to me immediately. I have arranged help. Why? MH]

He let the phone slip from his hand.

He wished he could see the looks on their faces as they realized who he was and how much paperwork would be required to explain the demise of a dead body. He wondered for a moment if they would feel the urge to drive a stake through his heart this time. It couldn't hurt any worse than what he was experiencing now. He fleetingly thought of dialing 999 or Mycroft when the symptoms grew so bad, but instead he'd simply decided to put himself in John's hands.

He is still aware for a few moments as his vision narrows, darkens and finally his eyes close. He could hear his heartbeat racing and knew his oxygen levels were decreasing because of how he began to feel like he was floating. The pleasure of it, away from the physical pain, and away from the worry of the world and its obligations was glorious and seductive. Time slowed. His eyes opened one last time as he rolled partially and saw his phone flashing text after text. He twisted his head and looked into the sky.

The stars are brilliant. The earth rotates around the sun, John. I have no regrets, John. I did the right thing. I do wish…

Sherlock partially closes his eyes, not finishing his wish and it didn't matter, because the light was so bright and there was nobody around to hear his wish anyway.

[TAC RES 7 – 11:04 – Target DAS. In Trans with rhythm but outlook unknown. ETA M16 ER 12m]

[11:04 -All measures required. Use Kings Protocol if necessary. Must live, imperative A, target indispensable. MH]

[11:06 – He has been retrieved. Resuscitation measures had to be taken. They will do all they can. How did this occur? M]

[11:08 – My fault. It is my fault. JW]

[11:09 – obviously. Do not bother to employ further stealth. We will speak soon.]

[11:09 – I did call you. JW]

[11:11 - I trust you actually wish to be seen? Get in the car.M]

[11:12 – Will you let me see him? JW]

[11:13 – That request isn't strictly up to me at this time is it? I am disappointed. I will advise you on his behalf should there be one, but we shall speak of sailing wax and string ]

Mycroft Holmes burst into the room. John was being honored as an incredibly protected guest. That is he was being detained, but they had not decided to practice active torture and had kindly brought him tea, so it may be prisoner or It may be guest but the definition was precisely the same. John didn't stand, he looked up at Mycroft with his contemplative startled expression of respectful inquisitiveness.

Mycroft allowed his anger to flash in his eyes for a spit second, then with a slow exhale that spoke of pain and steel remorse, his face grew pointedly placid.

John met his eyes, missing nothing yet asking him to explain with a politely curious tilt of his head and the slight narrowing of his eyes as if trying to see Mycroft closer. Mycroft never burst forth in a room. John realized at once that his demeanor was far elevated beyond any point he'd ever seen.

"Tell me 'Doctor' did you enjoy humiliating my brother? Quite the little game you played. Quite the little petty lark. Wasn't it?" he smiled like an indulgent parent, but there was no smile truly on his face. John saw for the first time that perhaps, Mycroft was scary. Right now he looked a feather duster short of insane.

John cleared his throat, but his voice was steady. "I don't think asking him to understand the fact that he treated me like a bumbling useless tosser, to be left behind, lied to and not trusted even when you both knew the battle I fought each day, was so very evil. It really wasn't any form of humiliation, compared to the disgrace of mourning someone while they have a piss at my expense because they only died to get away from me. Must have been quite the lark to have me think you enjoyed my company because we had this common loss. That's my toast to your accusation, Mycroft. Humiliation? I'm sure you could give me several years lessons on that subject. Feels like I should have caught on earlier, but I never could quite master all those subtle Holmes mind games. Posh boys cut their teeth on them and you and Sherlock chew them up for fun. A mutt like me goes to the pound, not the hunt. No reason to bark or growl here, just tell me he's ok."

Standing, John yanked his watch off and threw it on the table. He looked at it and shook his head, then returned his eyes to the cold face while wearing his own frosty military calm like a badge of dare.

Mycroft's face fell slightly, but he refused to show that he had any feelings. He did know what he'd put John through, but right now, he needed a grudge to focus on rather than Sherlock. "Indeed. Still, you could have proven said point without the death march."

John looked at him with cynical amusement. "I hardly think his overdose falls exclusively in my hands. If he was telling the truth, that's kind of a double standard. Seems there were similar events on your watch. "

Mycroft sighs, then seems to find his tie slightly out of adjustment and uses the two way mirror to adjust its perfection to some unknown state of further perfection. "There were. The most recent all seem to have revolved around you. He came to you in faith. Saved your life again, in fact. Gave himself to you and you disposed of him and taunted him like a schoolyard bully. You must be so proud."

John wanted to argue, but part of it was at least true. He was a plonker for freaking when Sherlock was at his most vulnerable, but Sherlock was no saint for letting him reach such a mental abyss before stepping forward. "Not really, no. I didn't handle the thing so well. I was, I am not the picture of well-adjusted here. Broken toys can be messy. I can't help that he made a quick stop for a fix. I didn't even know. That put him in danger. That was not my clue."

"He injected the cocaine to function with a concussion, some sort of bullet wound. I gather you had no idea how carefully you have been watched over. I do not need your explanations or your excuses. I have an extensive understanding of the dynamics. I never thought unkindly of you John. That perhaps was my mistake."

"This isn't how I meant for this to turn out. I wanted him to know, he'd made a mistake, leaving me behind. I did prove the point. I could have helped."

"Ah, yes, our brave little soldier. Most impressive."

"You don't like me, because even you missed it. I see. Does it really bother you that much?" John blinks and smiles, his charming disarming face.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow, "You have some very problematic enemies I suppose you know. You realize you have drawn attention."

"Not important right now. You planning to make friends with them? Hand me over to them? Or are you calculating my value, against how loose my canon may be?"

"I am observing. "

"And gagging for me to share my intimate skills with your own army brats?"

"Which you feel is inappropriate."

"Right now? No possibility. Other concerns press my attention. May I please see him?"

Mycroft looks at his shoes and steps toward the door. He turns and smiles his most gentile, yet chilling smile. "I'm sorry, the viewing has been reserved for family only. You see, my unerringly brilliant brother died of respiratory complications forty-two minutes ago. He loved you. He coughed up a lung for you. Only had the one whole one left you know, lost most of the other one, just over a year ago. Right after your nuptials if I remember correctly. Yes, he overdosed, I am sure you need no description of what those final moments look like…Doctor. I only wanted to view your face as I conveyed that news to you…personally." Mycroft narrowed his eyes slightly and turned to leave the room satisfied by the way the air collapsed from the solders lungs and the look of agony he saw bloom on John's face. "Enjoy your stay. We have so many singular methods of entertainment here."

John didn't scream or shed tears. He just sat back down and grew very still. He eventually laid his head on the desk and closed his eyes. Whatever Mycroft had in mind was fine. It was all fine, in fact. All fine.

Sherlock, please no. He took in his breath and looked through his texts of the day. Over and over Sherlock had begged and he'd forced him to continue. He'd died because John had seen but not observed. Again.

Again? Not exactly, but still for John, it was, Again.

[2:57 – I am an idiot. You are an arse. Meant to be I suppose. The price of my forgiveness was too high beings in truth, it was already yours. Forever.]

John stood and began emptying his pockets. He had of course been relieved of all weapons upon arrival. He lined the contents up largest item to smallest. He took off his Jumper and folded it neatly. The shirt was slowly unbuttoned and removed but he began twisting the material as if wringing it out. His eyes seemed to meet those in the monitoring booth, steady, fearless and empty.

John placed the twisted shirt out on the table precisely and with the care of a tea ceremony. He took his wallet and wedged it under the door. He kicked it securely. He kicked off his left shoe and wedged it into the wallets fold.

Behind the glass, a man in his twenties with a patched eye and a scar down his cheek asked softly,"What's he doing?"

"Locking us out." Mycroft said passively.

John moved the table toward the one way mirror. He stood on it, locked his knees, held his arms out pulling the wound sleeve into a tight coil and wrapped the shirt snugly around his neck. He spun and hung his now bare heels off the edge of the table and used an ink pen to securely kink the arm of his shirt tightly to his neck. It took exactly five seconds for John to lose consciousness. His body crashed through the window like a tree.

"Jesus Horatio Christ!" the assistant said in horror.

Mycroft looked down at the bleeding damaged man at his feet. That was unexpected.

"He's done it for you, if that's important. " The younger man rolled John to one side and a gush of blood rushed from under John's armpit. Mycroft sighed.

"Get him sewn up, then sedate him until I require him." Mycroft said quickly releasing the neck tourniquet John had fashioned. Within seconds, John groaned in pain.

"You plan to kill him and now you want him rescued?" The younger man whispered as he typed franticly then attempted to constrain the worst of the bleeding without dislodging more of the glass embedded.

"Yes, he is actually suicidal, perhaps I will factor that into whether or not I allow him further contact with my brother."

"So maintain what you said, should he surface? Say he's dead?"

"Yes, of course. And do retain the footage of his little party trick. One never knows what one may find of use in the future." Mycroft stepped over John and left the room, making certain to not sully his shoes with John's blood.

"Stop it." John croaked as he was lifted onto a gurney face down. "Don't let them help me." He demanded now trying to fight the hands he could feel on him. He shivered in pain but was too foggy to put up much of a fight.

He heard the words, "little stick." The world swam and sounds became distant as he heard all the familiar calls of his condition. He wasn't sure what they gave him, but it was bloody glorious, whatever it was. He lay on the moving nothing and opened his eyes to the blurry meaningless shapes. Part of him knew he'd just done something important, but he just couldn't be arsed to think about it or care.

He needed to find his phone. But, then a sob bubbled from him as he tried to make his mind settle on what was real and what might be just a dream. He thought he was leaving Baker Street, someone had spoiled his plans. He had been dreaming something about Sherlock again. "Sherlock?" he said softly but he was too tired to wait for a response.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Just a bit of nonsense for you. Fact is as lovely as fiction. 666 words of Inspiration?<em>**

**_Control the orientation of your body on the bounce. As you would expect, mortality is highest when the initial point of impact is the head. Mortality declines (in this order) when the point of impact is ventral (the front of the body), dorsal (back of the body), lateral (side of the body), and feet-first_**

_His ignorance was as remarkable as his knowledge. Of contemporary literature, philosophy and politics he appeared to know next to nothing._

_Where in the tropics could an English army doctor have seen much hardship and got his arm wounded? Clearly in Afghanistan.' The whole train of thought did not occupy a second. I then remarked that you came from Afghanistan, and you were astonished."_

_"It is simple enough as you explain it," I said, smiling. "You remind me of Edgar Allan Poe's Dupin. I had no idea that such individuals did exist outside of stories."_

_Sherlock Holmes rose and lit his pipe. "No doubt you think that you are complimenting me in comparing me to Dupin," he observed. "Now, in my opinion, Dupin was a very inferior fellow. That trick of his of breaking in on his friends' thoughts with an apropos remark after a quarter of an hour's silence is really very showy and superficial. He had some analytical genius, no doubt; but he was by no means such a phenomenon as Poe appeared to imagine."_

_[25] "Have you read Gaboriau's works?" I asked. "Does Lecoq come up to your idea of a detective?"_

_Sherlock Holmes sniffed sardonically. "Lecoq was a miserable bungler," he said, in an angry voice; "he had only one thing to recommend him, and that was his energy. That book made me positively ill. The question was how to identify an unknown prisoner. I could have done it in twenty-four hours. Lecoq took six months or so. It might be made a textbook for detectives to teach them what to avoid."_

_A study in Scarlet – Sir Arthur Conan Doyle_

_It is estimated that the human body reaches 99% of its low-level terminal velocity after falling 573m 1880ft which takes 13-14 sec. This is 117-125mph at normal atmospheric pressure and in a random posture. The fall from St. Bart's roof was 70 feet which takes approximately 2 seconds. It takes 45-60 seconds to inflate a rescue air cushion; even small ones are rated for 70 feet. Can be up and in position in less than 4 minutes by a trained crew._

_The sole inspiration for Poe's Dupin appears to be derived not from any fictitious figure, but rather from a real-life Frenchman named Eugene Francois Vidocq (1775-1857); doubtless Poe heard of this man while he was in London as a child, and he followed this man's memoirs detailing the events of his life. Vidocq had been a talented criminal whom the Parisian police had decided to hire as a spy. Pleased with his work, police officials arranged for his release, and soon after Vidocq, once relentlessly pursued by the police, became police chief himself in 1811! As time went on. Vidocq hired his own network of undercover spies to capture criminals, but eventually a series of scandals forced him to resign his position in 1827, due to public suspicion that he was in fact responsible for planning many of the crimes that his police squad appeared to solve, just to make themselves appear to be skilled investigators. The belief was that, if Vidocq was removed from his post, then the crime rate would in fact decrease. Five years later he took this job again, but he resigned after only one month, and he accordingly spent the remainder of his days writing his own fiction and memoirs relating the details of his life, as well as running his own private detective agency called "Reseignements," probably derived from the French "Renseignements," meaning "information."_

_These are my story stats: I post an average of 110 reviews each month, often longer than some people's chapters. Won't you please take the time to review?_

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	8. Chapter 8

7th Perdition.

The Perditions of John

7th Perdition

**Author**: **Howlynn**  
><strong>Realm<strong>: _Sherlock_  
><strong>Story Title<strong>: The 7th Perdition of John  
><strong>Summary<strong>:_ They are both alive but neither knows that the other still exists. Is Mycroft the devil or will he raise them from perdition? _  
><strong>CharacterRelationships**: John/Sherlock

Just a short chapter - because I have been lazy - let me know what you think of the story.

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><p>Sherlock stares at the blank screen. He just watched John Watson garrote himself and plunge backwards through three layers of plate glass. "What did you do to him?"<p>

"I told him you died. It was only the truth. I was simply premature in my belief in it being a permanent state," Mycroft says gently.

"And you just let him bleed out."

Mycroft sighs, "He knew what he was doing. The damage was extensive. I am very sorry."

Sherlock stood. "I imagine you paid for a nice funeral."

"No, actually. He's only been reported missing. Foul play is suspected, but I certainly won't be showing up announcing myself with a public funeral for a man who has so many complicated facets."

"Then let me see him."

"Impossible, I'm sorry."

Sherlock glares at his brother. "I can always tell when you lie. He's alive. You want something. What is it, Mycroft? What do you want? What are you up to here? You know I would never be willing to buy his death without examining the body. That is far too stupid even for you."

Mycroft keeps his expression steady but he sighs and gives up his game. "Alright. He is going to make a full recovery. But, I will not allow you and he to continue in this sacrificial dance.—"

"You have no right –"

"I beg your pardon. I do. I have every right. Until I determine the deterioration of his mental capacity, you have no further say in the fate of John Watson. I don't even have to do more than set him free at this point. He will be retired by his own former colleagues. That is out of my hands. He has been deemed a loose cannon and I have to agree with them. Push me, and I will let his problems resolve themselves in the manner he signed up for long ago."

"Why are you doing this? I honestly think I hate you. How dare you—"

"How dare I? That is quite the statement coming from you. How dare you. I have done nothing but watch over you both in every way. I have befriended him, guided him and yes, I have stepped in at this time and I thought it would be less traumatizing if I allowed you both to accept the others death at this time. There will be no contact until I assess that you are both in a more competent frame of mind. You have lost all perspective when it comes to this man. In his current situation, there is no option of the two of you simply returning to your little past lives of charming oblivion and the crime solving hobby team that resides in anonymous bliss in a flat at Baker Street. It cannot happen. You both blew it."

"So everything I ever worked for is all for naught? I won't let you do this to me, or him. He's a famous author now, people will notice."

"Fine to save you the bother of escape, you are free to go. Take him home with you. Enjoy the few hours they will allow you, before the tragic assassination of the bestselling novelist by some lone radical who will then himself be murdered. That is the outcome Sherlock. You will probably be considered collateral damage and it will ruin me. No."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, "You would barely feel a blip."

Mycroft speaks softly, "That is simply not the fact, dear brother. He grounds you. Or has in the past. That is far from the case at this point, but I do understand the feeling. You see, you have always grounded me. If I lose you, of course I will survive. I have long expected it, in fact. I could make my peace with the event if you were killed in a way that meant something. Have you any ability to understand the torture it would be to me, to know that your little drug addiction or John Watson addition, cost me the only person who ever … meant as much to me as you do? I have made errors with you. I will be the first to admit it. But can you honestly say in your heart that you can't see that my position and vast resources are, at this very moment, the only thing standing between John Watson and a headstone?"

"And what is you intention in the long term? You plan to imprison us here and keep us separated for our own good? How do you think that will work out, Mycroft? You know me better than that."

"You are free to go as I have said. "

"Thank you. When can he go?"

"John Watson is another matter entirely."

"Don't. It is none of your business."

"It, in fact, is. You see, my options are limited. I can turn him over, which is what I am required to do, which results in his termination. I can turn him loose, which results in his termination and probably yours as well. Or, I can assess him, keep him here, keep him secret, and hope for your sanity that he will consider what I have to offer him. There is only one path that may offer him some measure of time. If you leave, I won't stop you. But you will not ever see him again."

Sherlock's face is stone, but he replies, "If you take him from me…"

"God you are such a child. Can you not see, I risk my position, if not my very life to play this game of subterfuge with these people? All for your fragile little heart, Sherlock. To keep your little toy soldier alive. Whilst both of you act like petulant teen idols bent on destruction. If I had a brain in my head or a single cube of the ice my reputation has garnered, I would pack your little bags and drive you back to that rat trap you wallow in and wavy cheerfully as Althea plans your funerals."

"We would be fine. You always have to make everything some grand plot…"

"That is because it is. What a simple Never, Never Land you have made London in your mind. A place in which you have made yourself, Peter and all you must do with your life is go on adventures, match your wits against the evil Captain Hook and fly around Big Ben bombed out on pixy dust and pout in you Jim jams and dressing gown. Oh Sherlock. You have forgotten who read you those stories and who has always stood the cost of your antics. I'm sorry Peter Pan. Your Watson Darling is in trouble. I'm afraid you're going to have to grow up to save him." Mycroft smiles and his face is actually soft with pure fondness.

"And you propose?"

"I propose that we see if we can get the two of you to screw your heads on straight and see if we could come to an understanding."

"Oh I understand. I'm going to hate it."

"Yes. Well. " Mycroft worries his tooth with his tongue. "Perhaps not as much as you would hate the alternative."

Sherlock sighs and nods. "You're sure? "

"They know I vetted him. They are very suspicious. There is no question of his status."

"I want to see him."

Mycroft smirked, then threw his head back and laughed. "Not hardly, dear brother. The two of you tend to put me off my short game and I have a tee time with the Maltese Prime Minister at three. Royal Blackheath is quite punctual you know. He flew in from Valletta yesterday. He asked after you last night."

Sherlock grinned, "How is good old Gonzi. I haven't ever thanked him for that thing he did, when I was stuck in Italy."

"He is looking forward to your recovery, as well as that of a certain pain in the backside doctor friend of yours." Mycroft crossed his arms and waited for the information to sink in.

"Malta?"

"To begin. It is very pretty there. Romantic even?"

"Sentiment, Mycroft," Sherlock says with disapproval but his posture is much more relaxed. "Remember to keep your elbow in, stop doing that chicken wing thing. You have the swing of an old woman."

"Yet I can still out putt you."

"You cheat."

"Of course I do. Not getting caught. That is the challenge. Someday you will catch me, but not this day. Afternoon, brother."

Before Mycroft had washed his balls and claimed his first par, Sherlock was searching the halls for the room of a desperately miserable doctor. He found him, restrained, drugged out of his mind and embarrassingly sitting on a bed pan.

John grinned at him and then tears spilled down his face. "Not dead again, thank all Christ."

"Course not. Wouldn't think of it."

"My fault again." John forgets he's restrained and tries to reach out to Sherlock.

"No. Not your fault. My stupidity."

"Get me out of here. Please." John asks sincerely and without his normal ability to push things down.

"Not yet. We need to talk, a bit. Your past. What have you not been telling me?"

John's face falls and he throws his head back on the bed, closing his eyes. "I see. Get out, Sherlock."


	9. Chapter 9

**The Last Perdition**

**Author: Howlynn**

**Realm:** Sherlock

**Chapter Title:** The Last Perdition of John

**Summary:** John's past becomes his final problem. Can John face Sherlock knowing that he indeed never was a very nice man, but a wolf in a wooly jumper?

**Character/Relationships:** John/Sherlock

Note: I know you have waited for this final chapter, but here it is. Yes it is long, but I have now watched all the Sherlocks many times and think the time spent was worth it. Let me know what you think.

* * *

><p>John had no way of measuring the passing of time because the drugs they gave him to keep him docile kept him without ability to judge the routines of staff, or even remember for certain how many times Sherlock had visited. He could only glimpse his bandages and judge by the fading amounts of fluids seeping from them that weeks rather than days had passed. They never allowed him to be conscious while they attended to his needs. He had remained perfectly cooperative and passive, yet they still restrained him, sedated him and treated his every movement as a possible hostile escape strategy.<p>

They were not wrong. He had every intention of getting away. He knew what Mycroft wanted and he had repeatedly refused point blank. John was a product of his training, but he would never be willing to train more soldiers to be like him. In the first place, the things he imagined they expected him to teach were so evil that they didn't need to be passed on. If he were given one-hundred of Mycroft's finest agents, John could break half of them by the end of the first day. It might take more than one batch of hard-eyed hopefuls before John could actually replicate himself one time and the trail of psychological damage it would require to hand Mycroft another was not worth it.

Mycroft probably thought he knew a lot about John by this time, but the truth was far deeper and darker than the brothers Holmes could possibly imagine. There was one other factor playing out in John's mind. He just didn't want Sherlock to ever realize that not so long ago, his skills had a purpose. He'd seen the look many times on the faces of those who had seen his specialties. He would rather die than see that dawning on Sherlock's face.

There was a reason Watson was so alone when he'd met Sherlock. There was a reason he had such deep seeded trust issues. He'd tried so hard to be a fluke, a success story, the one guy who emerged from his career relatively intact. John had watched most of his superiors die over the years. Those who had trained him were all gone. Only five had even attempted the transition into civilian life. Most had nothing to go back to so they picked some showy end and that was termed southern retirement. There were a few who found themselves in a situation similar to his own and they were offered the chance to pretend.

John had done well, in fact. Four and a half years had eclipsed the others. Simon Grove had made it two before he gone loose. Peter Sheffield had lasted twenty-six days before he'd murdered eight people and dined on two of them. John had been sent to clean up Paul Rearick's little home-for-the-holiday's scene. He could still remember what Paul said before John did what was required.

"Oh, Johnny-boy, they have buggered us in ways you can't even see? Not yet. But if you ever get the offer, run. Take the southern. Don't let them shuck you off to this, old boy. It will never work and they all know it. We can't go back. This is what happens. Now get on with it. Do what they pay you for. Just…remember…"

John had not let Paul finish his tirade, nor had he let him finish the last connections to the home-made explosive device Paul's fingers were desperately finalizing as he spoke his last advisement to his onetime friend. It took more than 30 hours and three remarkably close calls to disassemble the contraptions he'd left behind. If a local bomb force had found the devices, it probably would have made international headlines for weeks. Explosives were not John's area but he did see the debrief due to the fact he'd taken him out just in the nick of time.

All John liked to remember was Paul had loved Christmas and he always found some way to celebrate it no matter what kind of shit-storm they were in at the time. He'd once dragged a tumbleweed into a secret-ops barracks somewhere in south Texas and decorated it with live rounds, five pair of women's frilly knickers and he'd made little explicitly naughty figures out of tongue depressors. It was a magical Christmas.

John wouldn't have made it at all if he hadn't met Sherlock. He had never planned a future financially. Gambling during his recovery period had left him in a financial bind. Sherlock had made living possible. He'd also taken it away, when he had died. Now things were worse than ever but John knew some of the fault had been his own as well. He'd been angry and he'd played with Sherlock. Sherlock was just too fragile to play with John. There was nothing he could do for him now.

Every day Sherlock tried to convince John that a simple yes would fix all their problems. He'd tried all his usual tactics. First he'd called John an idiot and made jokes about how much fun it would be to spend Mycroft into the poorhouse while they wiled away their time in Malta.

When John had refused, Sherlock had acted stroppy and put upon. Then he'd told John that Mycroft was making him leave. He'd gotten tearful as he told John how Mycroft would have to turn John over to the cleaning crew if John didn't snap out of this childish pout. Sherlock had spent two visits glaring at John, one offering some very tempting favors of a sexual nature, and now Sherlock was probing the limits of supposed depression. Every one of these visits broke John's heart in a different way, but he'd kept his expression pleasant and his voice quiet but firm. John's answer was simply, No.

Sherlock was currently in the middle of a hunger strike, saying he considered 'convincing John' to now be a case and either the case would end or his transport would. "Whichever is first, no pressure."

Seeing Sherlock working so hard to find John's magic 'yes' button was both comical and so very sad. John had so rarely set his foot down and denied Sherlock anything, that the poor man truly hadn't realised that John had it in him to do so.

Mycroft had attempted to exert his own polite torture techniques. He let it be known that forcing Sherlock to escape for each visit was just his attempt to keep his brother entertained but he did warn John that he would not be allowed such leeway.

"I am sorry John. You have three days. If we have not come to an understanding by then, I am afraid there is little more I can do for you," Mycroft said in a bored tone that he also managed to feign sympathy in such a patronizing bully voice that John had curled against his restraints in mirth.

Mycroft's face didn't betray his anger but his words conveyed it spectacularly. "I am thrilled you find this situation so amusing. I am about to send Sherlock out on the most dangerous assignment I have ever allowed him to attempt, without you. I have the choice of either allowing him to do it with what small protections I can manage or watch him try to fool me, disappear and do it anyway. Can you deduce the probable results of such an action? I do hope I will be able to keep him intact when he understands my warning of your imminent demise was factual. He thinks I have omniscient powers and only deny his whims to annoy him. I have limits, you know. I am asking, one last time. I can't force you. For a man who repeatedly proposed to die for Sherlock Holmes, you now appear determined to see the opposite come to fruition."

John sighed and shook his restraints in frustration. "You don't have a clue what you're asking of me. Why are you doing this to him? I can't. I won't. Can't you just leave us alone? Or send me instead…I'm obviously expendable."

"You have no idea how much I wish I could do just that."

"Then just end this. I swear to you, I am not that bloody important to your schemes,"  
>John said with a pleading sincerity.<p>

"No. You aren't that important to me. I could happily do without you. Sherlock would be better off without you at this point."

"Finally, we agree."

"Almost. My brother is quite capable of living a productive, useful life without you."

"I know. My point entirely," John agrees.

"And the thus the contrary truth. He's capable. But, he's not willing. It seems thinking Moriarty would be the death of my brother caused me to overlook the actual force that would bring about his demise. All the bullies and bad-guys, drug dealers and psychotic stalkers outsourced by one small doctor." Mycroft's eyebrows rose and he twirled his umbrella dramatically as he turned and without another word, left John's room.

It had been hours before Sherlock had appeared. His face was dark with betrayal and the corners of his mouth were puffed out in misery. He didn't meet John's eyes as he entered but instead he noisily pulled the chair to the side of John's bed and without warning flopped down and buried his face in John's stomach and latched his arms around John as if he'd just been told one of them was about to face a firing squad.

John automatically brought his hand to Sherlock's head and ran his fingers through his curls.  
>"Sherlock. God. I'm so sorry."<p>

Sherlock's hands balled into fists and he gripped John even tighter. "I don't understand. Anything. Anything at all, if you will just say yes." Sherlock rolled his face toward John and in a whisper of desperation added, "Please. Please."

John sighed. He took a deep breath and held it, blew it out, shook his head and finally said, "I can't. I know you think… Sherlock, you don't know me. You don't know who I become. You will end up hating the sight of me. And that's if they don't take me out the second I set foot out from under your brother's thumb. I will get away. I'll be fine. It is the only way."

"I don't care. I know enough. I know what I've done to get here only to lose you again."

"Look. It isn't the end. I know what he thinks, and what he's told you, but I have only stayed because you are here," John told him this quietly and tried to get Sherlock to raise his head and look at him.

"He's making me leave in three days. I should be gone now. Every moment I waste here, I am letting someone else down. I have to go. Without you. You will be killed. How is that not the end?"

John smirked and then couldn't help but laugh. "Do you really think these little bits will keep me here five minutes past the time I want to be here?"John asked as he held up his restraints.

"You have shown no ability to escape thus far. I visit you."

"Really? Well, the first thing you need to learn is not to show off so much. The more information you hand the enemy the harder it is to surprise him. You always have to be so clever that you are rarely underestimated. The idea is to win, not parade your superiority," John told Sherlock gently.

Sherlock sat up and examined John. "You are saying that you think you can get out of here? You don't know where you are. You have no clue what day it is, but you expect me to believe that you can walk out at your leisure? Please." His eyes rolled at the idea.

John smiled. "I don't need to know any of that. Not important. "

"Because you're an idiot. This is not a lock up in the MET, John. These people know what they are doing. I can barely get around."

"And that is why you left me behind. Ever question what you think you see? Ever wonder how I was tied to a chair and sent a bolt precisely into the throat of your attacker, missing not only Sarah, but you? That was all strictly luck in your mind? A Chinese contraption aimed at her heart. Guess I'm a lucky guy, huh? Ever wonder how I made that shot when you were taking that pill, got away, and just so you are aware, shooting that bomb Jim strapped to me would not have detonated it. Good threat though. Trouble is, I had disarmed it, otherwise it would have blown when you unbuckled it and threw it halfway across the room. That was his plan. Think you're safe and boom. That's why he came back. Wanted to know what went wrong, why he wasn't dodging building bits."

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed and he sat back, confusion and disbelief written on his face. "What are you saying?"

"Who stands up to your brother, Sherlock? I mean ever, besides you. Hell, I could introduce you to some really scary people. Mycroft? Basically a nosy git with a rescue complex and mostly good intentions. Not saying I can do what you do. But I assure you, nobody can keep me away from you other than you. Had I known you were alive, I would have found you within a week. The whole world isn't big enough to hide from me. Moriarty would not have won if you had let me be on your side. You said that your last enemy was dead, but you didn't kill him. Mycroft didn't kill him. Guess who did kill Sebastian?"

"You couldn't have. John, he was betrayed by his own men."

John snorted and smirked. "I am very good at what I do. The trick is that you never advertise and it keeps you from getting caught. People see exactly what they want to see. In Afghanistan I had four different lungees and spoke Dari and Pashto. I quoted both the Koran and Ghulam Muhammad Tarzi. I still have friends there, you know. And not all of them are aligned with the ideals of British values."

Sherlock rarely looks completely mystified. "Wool jumpers, tea and ordinary. It's your urban camouflage?"

John's lips pull into an indulgent smile. His eyes dance and for a brief second, Sherlock see's the outrageous engine of an extraordinary mind churning. "I do genuinely like jumpers and tea…just so you know."

"Your brilliant, aren't you? You are like me in a different way?"

"No. Not as brilliant as you. Never will be. But perhaps a bit above the tree-bark dull you gave me credit for."

"I never…"

"Yes. You did. When I came back to London, it was like learning a new part. I wallowed in middle of the road, British dismal. It was a challenge, but the trouble was that once I got to the point that I could pass, there was no mission to accomplish. That was it. I fit in, but it didn't matter, because there was no further goal. No organization to infiltrate, no mark to gather intelligence on. It was abysmal. It was like trying to steer a sinking warship. The night I came to Baker Street. When you played the violin, I had no intention of keeping my appointment with you the next day. I finally understood that life was over as I knew it. But you…" John stopped and sighed.

"I became your mission."

"Yes."

"Pity? You pitied me? Wanted to fix me perhaps? Thought me a freak like the rest of them?"

"No. I didn't. Not at all. I could help you and you helped me. Not just the leg either. I woke up knowing where I belonged for the first time in a long while. I had a reason to wake up again."

"Not important. You're an adrenaline junky. That just makes me your new dealer," Sherlock said with frustration.

John smiled and shrugged. "Well, I was filling in for a skull. If you want to get technical."

"Perhaps. Go on." Sherlock twirled his finger wanting John to get to the point.

I just kept…seeing things…in you. I didn't love every second I was around you. God, you are an arse most of the time. But, when you left that next night…and you went with the killer. I followed, because I knew – I already knew – that you were going to be a full time job. I knew then that you would make every damned moment of my experience worth having. You know, I killed him in cold blood. It wasn't self-defense. He was not threatening your life. You had won. You chose to play anyway, Sherlock."

"But you didn't shoot him until you perceived that I was in danger."

"Not what happened. I watched you. You were about to leave. He tricked you. Drew you back in. You stood there all puffed up, debating. You went back by your own choice."

"I knew I was right. I was right." Sherlock said with a dismissing wave.

John looked at him skeptically. "Where would we be this moment, if I had left Baker Street, after the drugs bust? If I hadn't followed you?"

Sherlock shook his head in disgust at the question. "I imagine, I would be at the window, playing my violin and you would be … I don't know. Married and playing house?"

"Wrong. We would both be dead right now," John states firmly.

"Not necessarily. There are too many factors to calculate a definitive outcome…"

"No. It is simple. I would have read about you being the fifth victim in the papers the next morning and I would have shook my head and finished my tea and the very bullet that killed the cabbie would have made a transverse path through my own cranium before nightfall. We would both be dead."

"Well, we won't ever know that, because the pills got mixed up at the lab. I am eighty-percent certain that I was right. It wasn't that difficult to see that he—"

"You're a bloody idiot. You picked the wrong pill, Sherlock. You guessed and you guessed wrong."

"No way of knowing," Sherlock quickly argues.

"I know."

"What? How?" Sherlock glared at John trying to understand what made him so certain. It was true, Sherlock had just grabbed one randomly taking his fifty-fifty chance, but he could not see how John had deduced this fact.

"I'll walk you through it. Shall I?"

Sherlock smirked and gestured his hands in a palms up display of invitation. "Please. By all means, dazzle me?"

"First of all, a normal person will always push the danger away. He knew that. He also knew that the average person will always pick the pill that was not offered. They will choose the one he seems willing to take, perceiving it as the one he wanted to keep. If he had not made the move, it would have been a more difficult game, but it still would have worked out in your circumstance. He gave you the good pill. You picked wrong."

"Not true. He said it could be a double or a triple bluff. He assumed I would do the opposite of normal and gave me the bad pill."

"No. He only had one move. It had worked every time and it worked this time too. The grass is always greener, Sherlock. You proved it. And…"John held up his hand to stop the protest already forming on Sherlock's lips. "And, if you picked the right pill, he would have stopped the game. He would have shrugged, laughed and said you could have beaten him."

"No. He had nothing to lose. He played because he wanted to die. He had the bad pill and intended to take it, as per Moriarty's instructions. His only other option was jail and his eventual brain bursting fate to look forward to." Sherlock stood and paced the room.

"No. Sherlock. He knew if he could get you to take that pill, that he walked away free and clear with all that money and he got to claim that he was the best. He even beat you. Jim probably had a bonus the size of a small country in the promised reward if he got you."

"He was dying. He didn't care. He didn't want to spend his last moments in boredom. Jail," Sherlock's voice was low, but his ever-present certainty was faltering. He found John's line of thought offensive, because Sherlock hated being wrong.

"Yet you said he offered to come quietly, be arrested and go to jail before you ever got in his cab. You saw what his pills did. How they killed. His victims died in agony and he watched them. Is that how you would choose to die? Moot point, obviously. The only person in that room, who was bloody-well playing with fire, was you. He never planned to just sit there and wait to be arrested. He played on your emotions and found your fault, because pretending emotions don't exist, when they obviously do, is your weakness. Yes you fool some people with your act, but it doesn't work on all of us."

"It isn't that simple, John. Yes he did read me…and I read him too. He was ready to make his departure. He lived for his game and he wanted it all to end. You were not there. You didn't see his eyes."

"You may be right, partially. But if you were not a bloody egotistical idiot, and you did decide to kill yourself, without incentive. Would you pick something that horrible? Hell, the aneurism wouldn't have been that bad. Awful headache, but not hours of writhing gut wrenching agony. He wanted to watch it happen to you, Sherlock. People, like him, like to watch. They are afraid of death and they think they will see some magical epiphany that will make it okay for them. You have no idea how many there are out there, exactly like him. You were with him when he died. Was he calm, serene? Or was he terrified?"

"He was mostly in pain. I may have failed on the compassion lark, due to the fact I was more interested in information." Sherlock appeared to blank out for a second, playing his memory back, searching for some proof that John was wrong. He evidently didn't like what he saw because he whispered, "But he knew the risk."

"He knew which pill was life and which one was death. You lost. He died, knowing he'd beat you. I knew it too. I always wondered if you would ever admit it."

"But…That."

"He was not threatening you in any way. You beat him by walking away and then when your guard was down, and he saw his chance, that was his real game. He would have petted your ego and declined, if you picked the pill that he was about to take. You were losing fair and square. No reason to blame him at that point. He wasn't forcing you."

Sherlock's mouth slowly opened, "No, he wasn't." Then his eyes locked on John, questioning, probing, finally understanding.

John leaned forward a little, dropping his chin to his chest and looking determinedly up at Sherlock as if speaking some stern warning," I killed him anyway. To get your attention. I wasn't risking that much. I would have been gone before you and Lestrade put it together. I have knack for disappearing. I have a knack for killing as well. The men who are after me, the ones Mycroft is kindly hiding me from? I trained them. It is possible that they may eventually get me. We all make mistakes. But I didn't teach them everything I know. The day you walk out of here, so will I."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and gave John a look of dismissal,"You are serious? Just like that? Do you really expect me to believe that? This is Mycroft."

John nodded, and shrugged. "Just like that. Yes. He wouldn't be putting this much into me if I couldn't. Mycroft isn't stupid. He has found something. Won't tell me what. But he wants something specific or he would not be pushing you to convince me."

"He isn't. This isn't about him. When my main goals were accomplished and it was all over and I could have returned, it was my choice. Don't blame him. Don't say no because you think this was his fault," Sherlock said carefully.

"Which brings us to the subject of Sebastian Moran." John says slowly.

"I tracked him for months. Couldn't get close to him. In the end, it didn't matter. He ended up just as dead. One less gold star for me, I suppose, but he should have picked better friends. " Sherlock shakes his head thinking of all the failures that name brought to his mind. "Where did you hear that name?"

John took a sip of water before speaking. His voice didn't have a gloating tone, but it did sound satisfied. "He got sloppy. He didn't do his research. I knew him by reputation. Very talented man, but he didn't know his enemy. He bought the camouflage, just like you. I thought Mycroft would have caught on at least, after the body was discovered six blocks from his office. Lestrade helped me. You thought I was seeing him. He did pretty well, but of course he'd been out for a long time. "

"Was it you? Is that what your saying? You killed him?"

"It was. I was aware of him. He'd follow me around for days, then he would disappear. It had been going on since before you… left. He had several chances. I kept expecting him to make some move that would explain what he wanted. Even approached him once, spoke to him. Invitation if you will. I didn't actually associate him with Moriarty until after. Thought Mycroft had eliminated the three lone gunmen. They were strictly amateurs. Moran was not in their small-fish pond. His mistake was in following Mary. That was the point I decided. He could have me, at that time. Happy to play. But not my Mary."

"You actually loved her. Or was it just that overactive martyr thing you think I haven't noticed."

"She was easy to love. Martyr thing? Just for clarity here, I didn't jump off a building when a few phone-calls and warnings could have had the same effect. You should have called Mycroft or paid a little more attention to who your best friend was, rather than trying to save the world alone. Pot calling the kettle hot, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "What became of his rifle?"

"Back of your closet, next to the harpoon."

"How?"

"I simply shoved past the fire-suit and other costumes with one hand and slipped it…"

"You are trying to be amusing?"

"That's a brilliant deduction. Extraordinary, actually." John said, meeting Sherlock's annoyance with a calm secretive smile.

"Oh. Sarcasm is one of your tells, you know?"

"Then ask things that matter. Not things proving how stupid you think I am. I could have helped you. You never gave me the chance." John glared at Sherlock.

The room was quiet as they each sized the other up, reevaluating the friendship in the space of a few minutes. Sherlock licked his lip, aching for a cigarette or something stronger. John examined his hands, cleaning his nails on the edge of the sheet and disliking how long they had grown.

Sherlock's voice was soft when he spoke again. He didn't meet John's eyes, yet the gesture somehow made his question carry more weight. He stood with his shoulders sloped, leaning against the drab grey concrete wall on the far side of the room, unable to hide his fear of what the answer might be. "That day. When I came back? Why? You left me…after we…" Sherlock pushed off the wall and turned to observe John's reflection at the mirrored observation frame. It was the closest thing this room had to a window.

He looked toward Sherlock, but didn't meet Sherlock's eyes in the reflected silver square. He spoke calmly but there were tremors that kept forcing him to clear his throat. Sherlock studied him, but didn't move as John attempted to explain. "I'm not a leader. Being your sidekick, your assistant…it suited me. But knowing you didn't come back for me. That the next time you perceived me as an inconvenience…you'd leave me again. Or at some point, you go off and get yourself killed permanently rather than…thinking of trusting me, the way I always trusted you. I lived to redeem you and you found no value in that pursuit. You danced for Moriarty. Now you were dancing for Mycroft. You pay attention to people who make you dance, Sherlock. I thought. I thought perhaps…if I made you dance you would notice me."

Sherlock turned, fury in his eyes and distinct enunciation. "Notice you? For God's sake, John. In case you haven't noticed, I nearly died. Dancing for you. In fact, I would prefer that to the alternative."

John didn't get a chance to say more than, "Sherlock," before he stormed out the door. It didn't slam, but the whisper-snick of the security engaging sounded similar to John.

John leaned back and sighed. He finally decided that his only option would have to be a yes. He catalogued his skills and weighed them against a life with Sherlock. He knew it was one of the most selfish things he'd ever done, but nothing was worth another minute without Sherlock. He knew it was down to the wire, but he would give them what they wanted and let the cards fall as they would.

He was about to shout it to whoever was watching him, when he was interrupted by the low sound of a buzzer that infiltrated even his own soundproof quarters.

John had little doubt what the sound meant. "Bloody hell, Sherlock," he whispered as he slipped out of his restraints.

Fifteen minutes later, John was quietly making his way up through a maintenance shaft for the lifts used in this subterranean complex. He had no idea where he was headed but instinctively knew that up was out. He was weak from his time in the hospital and still barefooted, though in a uniform and Id badge of one of his many attendants, who currently rested peacefully restrained in John's place, enjoying the sedative meant to be flooding John's mind at this very moment.

Movement both above and below him made him swear under his breath. Sherlock was about twenty stories above him, using the same shaft he'd chosen as a conduit for escape. Below, the elevator began to rise at an alarming speed. John scrambled for a safe perch and shouted a warning upwards.

Sherlock's face appeared a tiny white dot looking down in confusion. "John?"

John laughed and looked up. "Who else?" He waved at Sherlock as if this precarious situation were simply some standard airport reunion.

Sherlock grinned. John waited for the lift to pass and stepped over and leapt for the undercarriage mechanism, being careful to keep his fingers out of the works. He passed a cursing Sherlock and unsteadily jumped back to the ladder, coming to land a story or two above Sherlock at this time.

"Fancy meeting you here," John said downward. He tried not to look too cocky at Sherlock's confused shock.

"How did you?"

John shrugged and spoke before Sherlock finished sputtering. "I assumed that was your signal, right? Because you wouldn't be stupid enough to leave me behind again. You are a genius and all." John stated as he efficiently resumed his climb upwards.

Sherlock scoffed, "Course not. Knew you'd turn up."

"No you didn't. I used to think you got off on putting your life in danger. Getting suspicious that it's my life you in fact enjoy testing."

"What does it matter? Same difference."

John looked down between his feet with angry incredulity on his face. "If I go through with this training thing, the first thing I am going to do is whittle that enormous ego you have down to a manageable C-4 cargo plane size… and—"

"Not ego. Just fact," Sherlock interrupted his breath heavy from the exertion of their quick assent.

John looked down at him again. "Yeah? Well, here's a news flash—"

"Go to hell, John. I am not willing to live without you. How you seem to always miss this one glaring fact of my personality never fails to…"

"Yet off-out you go? Intending to leave me behind? That your plan?"

"No. Idiot. I have three days, probably much less, to plan your rescue. Mycroft is handing you over and I have to be outside to have any hope of your intact recovery thanks to your stubborn refusal to train me."

"Train you? What are you talking about?"

"One of your specialties is, I believe, the hostile recovery of critically injured detainees. Says so in your file. I have let you down and you no longer want to work with me. It's fine, but I won't leave you to die."

"Is that so? Just out of curiosity, what were your plans after you saved me from dismemberment and deadly nightshade?" John asked, trying a hatch he was passing and finding it blocked.

Sherlock was silent.

"Have you any actual plans?"

"Once you are safely away, I have one last thing to do. Then, I'll go home." Sherlock says voice low.

"You're having a piss, right? To Baker Street, you mean?"

An age of sighs pass before Sherlock responds, "Baker Street means nothing if you are not part of it."

"Then spell it out, because I can't see you kipping on Mycroft's sofa with much enthusiasm."

"I'll never speak to fatso again. Don't be stupid. The only thing left to a misfit like me, is the among those like me."

"Oh. So they have a special island of mad geniuses? Like Santa's misfit toys? Hopefully it has a better location than the North Pole. Brain freeze sucks."

"London. Homeless network, John."

"Oh. Planning to take up with your old pals then. Cocaine, heroin-"

"Whatever it takes. I'm tired. Cocaine and alcohol produce the interesting cocaethylene effect. Responsible for most deaths among casual users. Correct? Perhaps a personal account on my blog would have use to someone. " He snapped.

John stopped and leaned over, his face a mask of disgust. He stepped off the ladder onto a ledge and waited for Sherlock to come up level with him. "Let me understand this correctly. Look me in the eye and tell me you are setting out to intentionally destroy your mind. Your next career goal is Consulting Zombie?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No reason to lie about it now, John. Why are you even pretending surprise? Am I not simply meeting everyone's predictions of the only possible outcome any of you have ever imagined from me? Drug busts, and danger nights, and Oh God forbid…he's bored and he's smoking again. Let's all run around pretending we have to save him. I have even proven Sally right, John. Lots of bodies out there, I am responsible for quite a few of them in the last years. Guess what. There will be more. Until there isn't. Not playing by the rules any more. I told you the rules are wrong. I have eliminated all the other possible lives I might have had. It leaves me one. Now, shut up and climb."

"Can't. You'll have to squeeze in. Lift is coming back," John said shuffling to make room.

"I won't fit."

"Shut up. Put one foot here and the other there, dip your shoulder. Plenty of room." John pulled him over and shifted. Sherlock leaned in close yet he was uncomfortably stiff.

"Forget it, I will go up one," Sherlock complained.

"No time. Relax. You act like you're afraid of me. I'm not trying to seduce you for Christ's sake. If I were I certainly wouldn't have to use such a lame-brain excuse to trap you."

"If you did, I would fall for it."

John smiled and pulled him closer. "I'll keep that in mind. Tuck your elbow, unless you want it amputated."

Sherlock stretched his arm above them and latched onto a rail above, giving himself more leverage to pull into the small space. "Will you? Keep it in mind or seduce me?"

John swallowed and tilted his head. "You'll never make it through my training. "

"I have to. The Americans have word on Irene. Mycroft can't officially do anything."

"Not dead? Typical."

"By now? No idea. If she is…"

John sighed and closed his eyes. "So that's why you came back. That is what this whole bloody thing has been about. The Woman. She's what made you lower yourself and …dammit."

"No. Please stop, before you say something I will never forgive you for."

"Then you better explain. Quickly," John said, tension in his grip on Sherlock mounting toward painful.

Sherlock sighed in frustration and closed his eyes to convey that John was trying his patience. His eyes opened and he started to speak, shook his head and let the words burst forth, "You know I didn't sleep with her, and I could have. I almost did. John, after your wedding, I was not myself. I was so weak, so lost. No matter what you think of her … I would not be alive. Mycroft had washed his hands of me. Molly wouldn't even speak to me. Now she's in trouble. Probably her own fault and deserves whatever they do to her. But…"

"But you are going to try to save her. No matter what."

"Yes."

"And that is why you are so consumed with my agreeing to step under Mycroft's wing."

"She was critically injured. We know where she is, but…"

John sighed as the lift passed them. Just in Sherlock's ear he said slowly. "Do you know the risk of this sort of extraction? The odds are not good. My failure rate ran in the seventy percent range. Some died in transport. Some had no chance, and we tried anyway, but you have to be realistic. I will help you. But, first you have to know what we face. Second, if I do this, I am in charge. No questions. We do it my way and if you go off on your own, or decide I am stupid and blow the operation up in our face… I am done. I don't like to be in charge, but in this kind of situation…"

"Yes, of course. I understand." Sherlock said too quickly, like a kid itching to get his hands on a puppy and promising to sprout wings and halo if the admonishing parent will just let it in the house already.

"No, don't do that."

"Don't agree with you?"

"Don't agree without hearing and later on…"

"I won't."

"Sherlock. You hear only the bits you want to hear."

"But I know what you mean to say."

"No. Maybe you do. Sometimes, but not now."

"Come on John. Mycroft is probably negotiating away your liver at this very moment. We will sort the details after we—"

John pulls him to a stop. "No. Not details. My way."

"Fine. Will you get a move on? Your liver is probably not all that is at stake and I demand prior claim to some of your bits." Sherlock said with a poignant widening of his eyes.

Mycroft was indeed on the phone. His eyes were closed, his finger was trying to block out the sound of the alarm. He looked far less put together than normal and when Sherlock cleared his throat, the relief was evident. It was followed by a split second of fear as he realized Dr. Watson was also present, but he slammed the phone down and stood quickly. With two deep breaths he restored his equilibrium to his face and purred aloofly, "Gentlemen, I hope you enjoyed your little excursion. To what askew kindness, do I owe this unexpected social call? Isn't it nice that you interrupted your escape, to grace me with your cheery faces?"

"Well, we have always been so close, dear brother, couldn't stand an hour of your displeasure," Sherlock returned in an equally smarmy fashion.

"I'm sure. Do you intend to kill me?" He asked, partially joking and partially challenging. His eyes darted to John, leaden with expectation.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Considered it, but it's more fun to make you put up with me."

"Undoubtedly your impromptu visit has some purpose?"

John takes a step forward. "You want me to train him. That was his first lesson. Successfully executed, I might add."

Mycroft's eyes lock to John. "I see. Welcome back, Dr. Watson. You had me worried."

"Well, don't stop. I can guarantee you don't have the full file." John said, glancing at Sherlock.

Six months later…

John removes his sweat soaked vest and wads it up before tossing it at the sun-glass wearing lanky form occupying the best deck chair on the balcony like a buttered lobster. "You are burning again. I have told you that you are never going to bronze. You are going to go from bleached whale belly straight to skin cancer. You are popping freckles faster than Mycroft pops jelly babies."

Sherlock let the disgusting shirt sit on his face for a second, taking a deep breath and appearing to revel in the scents presented. John rolled his eyes and removed it before leaning over for a kiss. Sherlock flipped his glasses up and grinned, then shading his eyes stated, "You had a good day? Did they all quit? Record first day then."

"No actually, only twelve left. It's a good group. Mycroft will be pleased." John said flopping down next to Sherlock and pulling open the tab of a cold beer, taking a swallow and offering some to Sherlock.

Sherlock curled his nose and shook his head. "You must be getting soft on them then. More than half were gone in the first class."

John grinned. "True, but you were in that class and I don't think I was responsible for almost forty of them washing out."

Sherlock smirked, "Just saving you time."

John tilted his can of beer up again and kept his eyes on Sherlock, "Yes, you are effective in that department. So how was your day? Did our fair lady give you any trouble?"

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes, "She tried to seduce the maid and escaped twice. Didn't make it far. You might check on her, see if she's making any headway on the knots. This time I soaked them in seawater after she tried to blackmail the physical therapist. Figured if she wouldn't do her exercises voluntarily, this would be equally operational."

"Oh. Bit slow then, overall?" John deadpans.

Sherlock waves dismissively, "All within normal parameters, Captain."

"Well, seeing as how she will probably be occupied for the next couple of hours, would you like to join me for a shower?" John let his index finger slide slowly through the beads of sweat and oil on Sherlock's brilliant crimson chest.

"I just took one an hour ago. After the …oh look, I appear to need another. Missed some spots," Sherlock declared on second thought.

John helped him up, "Good, I can count all your new freckles," he teased.

"Fine, while I count all your new grey hairs," Sherlock replied.

"The trick to seducing people, Sherlock, is perhaps less mentioning of age related statistics."

"You mentioned my freckles first."

"Yes. I did. But I actually like your freckles, so it isn't quite the same."

"Yes it is. Your blond hair belongs to everyone. But the grey ones belong to me."

"What are you on about?'

"You said I gave them to you. That makes them mine. When you are totally grey-headed, then I know I get to keep you for always, because every hair on your head will belong to me."

John stopped and smiled at Sherlock. Sherlock stopped and turned. "Did I say something wrong? You don't want to shower?"

John sighed, and shook his head. "You have my life. And my heart. Every hair comes along with the package. You don't have to wait. I think I belonged to you from the moment you said you left your riding crop in the mortuary. We can shower afterwards…"

John reaches up to kiss Sherlock. A sound of a derisive sigh behind them interrupts. "And you call me kinky?" Irene says trailing a puddle of rope behind her as she brushes past them and closes the door to the loo.

John groans. Sherlock smirks and winks at John, knocks softly on the door and purrs, "Always welcome to join us, my dear? If you're hungry."

John's jaw drops and he's making silent motions of 'no' to Sherlock's back.

"Piss off, Sherlock," said the tired voice from behind the door.

John adds, "He was kidding."

Fifteen minutes later, John is quite occupied, when a shocking sound stops him and freezes him in place for ten heartbeats. His head slowly rotates and The Woman stands framed in the Maltese sunset. She smiles wickedly naked as the day they had met and strikes a pose, letting her body shimmer with power and playful challenges. "Maybe he was kidding, but you weren't. Doctor Watson, I would like to introduce you to my riding crop. It seems Sherlock and I have something else in common. Not to mention a special, shall we say adoration for wickedly brave soldiers who happen to need a good scolding?"

Sherlock grins down at John, obviously in on this little surprise. "Who is in charge now? Care to take a guess? The game is on, John. No rules."

John rolls onto his side, his eyes darting back and forth between Sherlock and Irene, as he groans, "Please, God, let me live?"

The end of perdition.

* * *

><p>Thank you all for reading and I hope you enjoyed my first attempt at Sherlock. I very much enjoyed writing it and hope you will check out my other Sherlock stories, <em><strong>Wings Of The Damned<strong> _and _**A Statue In The Temple Of Mendacity. Thank you all for reading.**_


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